


The Judas Kiss

by IViv



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IViv/pseuds/IViv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond returns to London to find a special delivery sitting inside his mailbox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sfumatosoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfumatosoup/gifts).



> Special thanks to frigid-princess for proofreading my work! She is truly an amazing beta.

 

Bond couldn’t recall exactly when the venomous thought began to blossom inside him.

Perhaps it started as a mere distraction, rising from the aphotic depths of his mind in attempt to prevent him from mourning all he had lost. Perhaps not, but in this case the origins mattered little as it had escalated to the point where Bond could no longer concentrate on his job.

Bond used to wonder, during his visits to the memorial wall. It was an old habit of his. After returning from every mission he would patch up his wounds then bring flowers to the hundreds and thousands of names chiselled neatly beside each other, row on row: those who had fallen in their heroic love of country.

In a form of celebration, Bond reminded himself of the great deal of responsibility entrusted upon him, readily accepting the fact that his own name would likely end up there with the others one day. He knew he would be proud of his efforts and loyal service to his country even if he doesn’t live long enough to take up a desk job. His successor would stand in the very same spot he occupies today to marvel at the greatness of this organisation, just like he does.

But now, a month after the destruction of his ancestral home, as Bond silently tails down the footpath stretching along the wall, instead of placing the bouquet at random, his feet would always take him to a specific spot.

In front of a name.

A name that used to be.

Now nothing but a patch of indented stone. Carefully polished to blend in with its surroundings but visible to the searching eye none-the-less.

Like a horrific scar marring the skin of a beautiful lady, tainting her body.

A tragic mistake made long ago.

Bond raises his hand to trace over the stone; he could almost feel the ghost of the name underneath his fingertips even though nothing is there.

He needs to do something about it, satisfy this crawling curiosity, this burning desire to know.

Until then, rest was definitely out of his reach.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadly I don't own the James Bond franchise, but let me know if I do someday because that will be awesome.

If agent James Bond, 007, of British secret intelligence had no other qualities left in him save for one, then the one quality he carried so unshakably engraved into the depth of his soul would be his absurd stubbornness in achieving his goals.

His entire existence demonstrated it as he made it through mission after mission with the same tenacity in mind. Others saw him as a living legend, but really he was just a relentless individual who refused to give up due to his recalcitrant nature and damaged ego.

Thoroughly equipped with the above mentioned knowledge, it was no surprise to Q, new quartermaster of MI6, that Bond kept turning up at his private quarters, shortly after he had refused to provide aid on matters he deemed unfit for an agent to carry out.

They have been at this for hours; neither saying a word as all means of necessary discussion have already been thoroughly explored in previous meetings. The ancient walnut grandfather clock placed beside the currently-lit chimney silently strikes twelve, indicating that it was long past the usual hours considered polite to occupy a home that is not one’s own.

Q is the first to snap. Agitated, he quickly draws his attention away from the screen of his laptop to converse with Bond.

“What you have been suggesting over the past week, 007, is both tedious and unnecessarily stupid with an utter disinterest in my personal safety. If my previous answers to you somehow miraculously failed to reach your ears, then I shall take the liberty to reply, _again_ , as you seem to respond better to crude repetitiveness, that your persistence on the matter is not going to affect my judgement. Now, I will not aid you in your petty adventure, so you can stop harassing me in _my_ property, sod off, and leave me to the work that _actually_ needs to be done.”

Behind the enlarged screens of Q’s laptop stood a very weary-looking Bond. He considers his options for a moment and then lowers his head in exasperation as he finds he has not a word more to say.

 “Q,” In a last-ditch attempt he vocalises the sitting man’s name.

An awkward pause stretches between them; the room is silent save Q’s furious typing on his laptop. Frustrated under 007’s disapproving glare, Q ceases his typing before removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.

“What do you want me to do, 007? MI6 has one of the world’s most secure online databases. Let’s just say that I somehow miraculously succeed at a full scale retreat after taking the information undetected, _by myself_. What could you possibly want to do with an ex-00 agent’s file?”

Bond takes his time, carefully conjuring his answer as he had little clue towards what he wants in the first place. Maybe it was just curiosity; maybe he needed closure for the death of someone he once held dearest. Whatever the reason, he knew if he responded with either one of those explanations Q wouldn't hesitate to file a restraining order against him, so telling the truth was not an option.

“Silva is not buried six feet underground like he should be right now. You would know, because you do your own fair share of snooping around. I don’t usually go around blackmailing fellow co-workers, but you have reduced me to this.” Bond challenges as he travels across the room to interrupt Q before he could return his attention to the laptop.

“I would like to be granted the satisfaction of a job well-done. So Q, either we keep this under control between the both of us, or I can turn you over to M, your call.”

Q considers this for a moment, and then visibly concedes.

“007,” He speaks with precaution, as if afraid of being overheard in his own home. “Two people were announced dead that night while only one body remained the morning after for the clean-up truck. That happened for a reason. And that reason is above the clearance level for the both of us. So with your best interest in mind, I would suggest you let this one slip - just as I had. You have been in this industry long enough; you know not to let business get personal.”

He looks lingeringly at Bond in order to emphasize his point.

The bellowing winds of London’s chilly winter knocks the tree branches maturing too close to the antique townhouse against the window of Q’s study. Fire flickered inside the sturdy chimney, illuming both men in warm tints of orange.

Bond knew Q was right, but he couldn’t just let this go. This was different, this was personal from the moment he came back to life after months of enjoying death.

“I need that file,” was Bond’s final statement as he got up to exit Q’s study.

Behind closing doors which interrupted his view of the man departing, Q expressed his concern to a now empty room.

With the best interest of protecting their technical operatives, MI6 has set up a system of strict guidelines which specifically forbids any field agent having non-work related contact with them outside the safety of MI6. To further prevent suspicion they have even gone to the great extent of forging identities for them.

Q’s staged life story was that he inherited the family fortune when he was orphaned at the age of 16, an awful car crash which left a lasting impact on his behaviour and social skills. He is now a jobless author, whom on occasions publishes stories onto the internet to entertain himself.

A farfetched experience considering the resume you would typically expect from the quartermaster of MI6, which means that Bond must have already broken into some supposably non-existent safe just so he could pester him.

Q looks at his screen which shone with miniature coding alien to anyone but himself.

_This was really going to be a long night._

 

\----------

 

 

Nothing happened for the majority of the following month.

Q, as quartermaster of the governmental agency responsible for dealing with matters of internal security and counter-intelligence overseas was, unsurprisingly, very busy. Bond also began receiving fresh missions of his own which saw him no longer within phone reach of an ordinary mobile.

Both men proceeded to carry out their respective tasks assigned within MI6. Until finally, two months following Bonds resurrection, upon returning from his latest mission and beginning a whole week’s worth of down time, he receives something in the mail.

It was a waterproof envelop which opens to reveal a brown manila folder, neither sender nor address was recorded. As Bond unties the strings of the folder a note slips out.

_This ends here._

The contents of the folder documented Tiago Rodrigues’ life. Recruited as an orphan, became an official 00 in his mid-twenties and participated in active service, Station H Hong Kong from 1986 to 1997. Flawless career indicating pure genius as an agent if nothing else, he was a brilliant hacker, excellent with his technologies and showed a deadly aim out on the field. He qualifies for both technician and field operative which was extremely rare at the time due to strict regulations.

The document resembled information that Bond would expect, judging from the man’s composed execution during their several encounters.

What is not shown here after Tiago became Raoul Silva Bond already knew. However, the lack of information surprised him as Bond would have anticipated that MI6 preforms regular updates to ensure efficiency within the organisation.

He slowly reaches the conclusion of the impressive document, as he does so he gets a sense of something being exceedingly wrong.

_Subject showed rejection to authority as individual actions were taken beyond the brief to complicate missions. Suspicion to gaining further information than required about international operations was confirmed. Subject now holds jurisdiction above maximum clearance._

_Manual termination required._

Bond froze; all feelings of familiarity escaped him as he proceeded to finish the document. Marking the end of the page in a bright red stamp was the words:

**_Termination successful._ **

Out of all the things that Q could have sent him **_this_** was definitely not what he was expecting.

Cold sweat now runs down Bond’s back in knowledge of this information he cannot erase. His vision swiftly departs from his tiny London apartment as the memories take him back. Suddenly Bond was back in the temporary underground station of MI6, the deceased M’s voice ringing in his ear.

_“He started operating beyond his brief, hacking the Chinese. The handover was coming up and they were onto him. So I gave him up. I got six agents in return and a peaceful transition.”_

Bond feels like he has just hit the tip of an iceberg.

First impressions are always lasting, ever since he laid eyes on his brief he has always interpreted Silva to be in the wrong, using his talents for evil, hacking Chinese government intelligence which back fired into something ugly for him. But that wasn’t what the file told him.

Bond quickly speed reads through the document again to make sure he did not miss a single word the first time round. To his disappointment, no extra words were conjured since his last attempt to wondrously answer his questions.

The red stamp still demands attention in all its glory, from a distance the vivid colour could almost be passed off as a smear of blood.

Bond makes his way over to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a handsome amount of scotch. He takes the drink in hand then sits down in his armchair to stare at a dart board on the opposite wall.

Tiago Rodrigues was……

 _Manually_ terminated.

Terminated, not traded because he blew his cover.

Either Q decided that he was taking this way too seriously and thought it would be funny to mess with him, or the old M downright lied to him. But why would M lie to him? His loyalty to her was unquestionable.

Or perhaps they were both telling the truth, perhaps…

Tiago was traded to be eliminated.

Bond recoils at the thought like he just suffered a punch to the guts. He takes out his personal cell phone and dials, head spinning. The person on the other end answers with lightening efficiency.

_“007, I know it would occur unnatural to you that I mi-”_

“Q,” Bond interrupts.  “What happened to the others?”

 _“What? What others what are you talking about, 007?”_ Q speaks quickly, confused at the nature of this conversation.

“The others who were traded for Silva, what happened to them? The six agents who acted as bargain chips for Silva. Are they still in service? Where are they now?”

 _“Oh good god, I thought I told you to drop it.”_ Q answers in a quiet hiss as he turns to observe his environment, making sure no one noticed the conversation at his end of the room _. “You have no idea what I poked through to get that information. This is not going to end well for the either of us if we continue this search for the truth that we know we shouldn't find.”_

“Q, this is important to me, _please_.” Bond leans forward from his armchair, knuckles white from gripping the scotch glass. “M died for this. Now I assume you have absolute confidence in the accuracy of the file you sent me, so there has to be a reason why we are getting two stories.”

Silence from Q. Just when Bond thinks Q is about to hang up, he speaks.

_“Ok, 007, if this will increase the likelihood of you returning my equipment in one piece next time, then so be it. I’m already in this muck with you, no use trying to escape now.”_

Q takes his phone with him outside while nodding to several of his co-workers from Q branch to be excused temporarily.

_“I’ll get back to you, as much as I despise you doing this. It does sound like dead rats no matter how you choose to look at it. A trade of one of MI6’s best 00 for six insignificant agents, most likely a broken heap who spilled every last one of their secrets since they lived to be traded.”_

Bond stands up to walk around the apartment; his mind always functioned better when he was on the move.

“It makes no sense because my brief also skimmed over that part so it reveals absolutely nothing. From what M has told me, I assumed that the Chinese wanted Silva because he hacked into their system and found out about something that may have been dangerous for them in the long run. But the document you sent me-”

“ ‘ _Subject now holds jurisdiction above maximum clearance.’ ”_

“Exactly. Jurisdiction to what, and to affect whom is the key we are missing. I remember something Silva said during his brief stay in his cell.”

“ ‘Th _ey tortured me. But I protected your secrets. I protected you.’ ”_

“Why would Silva be protecting M if what he knows potentially brings down the Chinese? He was trying to keep his secrets regarding MI6 and its operations. I need to speak to those agents who were traded for Silva’s capture, their eligibility as an agent directly places them as either camouflage for MI6 eliminating Silva or true bargain chips in a hostage exchange.”

 _“I understand why you need to do that, but what are you suggesting that we find here, 007?”_ Both men stopped pacing as Q blatantly states the rhetorical question that did not need to be answered.

“I am not suggesting anything, Q. I just want to… I just want to… _know for sure_.”

For a moment neither man speaks, as if they are re-considering the odds and re-balancing what they have to gain in exchange for what they have to offer. 

 _“Well, good luck getting all of us killed.”_ Q said to break the silence that seemed to last an eternity. _“I’ll keep you posted if I come across anything. But right now, unlike someone, I actually need to get back to my job in order to get paid – a highly unusual concept for you I would assume.”_

“Q.”

_“007.”_

Then the line is cut.


	3. Chapter 3

Bond’s week on service leave marches by inexorably slowly.

He drinks non-alcoholic beverages, eats his greens and stays in shape by exercising in the makeshift gym he had converted his guestroom into.

Most likely the healthiest vacation Bond has had in years, however despite the increase in Bond’s physical health, his psychological condition continues to decline. Miss Moneypenny paid him a visit a few days back, whilst looking visibly concerned she commented on how he should go consult a psychiatrist.

Bond told her it’s nothing, which it normally is, because problems like this never tend to last.

Years in the field of espionage often found Bond stuck with gifts he cannot get rid of: lightning fast reflexes, the ability to see straight through lies, a sixth sense for events that would most likely endanger his life… the list goes on.

Along with those gifts, however, comes the unmentioned downside to every story. It’s embedded in the depth of every anti-hero alike, lurking in the darkness until the unfortunate protagonist finds himself in a situation made perfect for the eruption of his dark past.

He has been through this phase with the old M, whom frequently comes back to express her disapproval whenever he is about to do something stupid. He would still take strolls with Vesper along the canals of Venice whenever he visits. Suspects hanging over the ledge of platforms, moving trains, skyscrapers, or anything of the like inevitability merge into the form of Alec before plummeting to the ground.

They come and go; Bond doesn't allow them to distract him from what needs to be done. Taking up the title of a 00 meant that no one would always remain a permanent fixture in his life; therefore they must, in turn, accept that he moves on with or without them.

Bond is not one to dwell on the past, _regret is unprofessional_.

Upon completion of another days’ worth of stamina training, Bond slings a towel over his shoulders as he walks into the kitchen to grab a bite to eat. He opens the fridge, but makes no further attempts to assemble his food as his mind slips back onto the issue of Raoul Silva.

He is determined to get to the bottom of this even if it turns out to be the last thing he ever does.

In old, but fond memories of M, if Silva continues to appear guilty, then Bond would proceed to finish the job. Living flesh or decaying corpse he would find him then preform a proper burial to make sure he can no longer walk the face of earth.

If Silva was something akin to being set up, then he will let this one go. It will take time and a few distractions but he will let it go because he has already ‘killed’ the man once at Skyfall.

Either way, Silva is going to become just another extraordinary snippet of memory, a fragment of what used to be, a past he holds gingerly close to his heart however not relevant enough to deter him from his true purpose.

 “Oh really? Is that what this is? Nothing too relevant?”

Startled, Bond dives for his gun then snaps around to press the cold barrel right up against his intruders forehead, before lowering it in agitation as he realises it’s Silva.

“Oh, Mr. Bond! Such unnecessary hostility! No one here is going to hurt you.” Silva chuckles darkly as he emerges from the shadows. “Well, at least not me.”

They’ve been at this for days now. At first Bond would still bother to put up a fight, which did him nothing good expect destroying his furniture as he shoots straight through him with muffled silencer shoots. The fact that Silva could not be touched meant that he was just like his other hallucinations. An imagination made alive by his mind, something that would keep nagging until their time is up. They could never touch him, so it’s not long before Bond decides to just tolerate Silva until he goes away like the others.

Upon closer inspection, Silva looks different today than how Bond last remembered him.

His features are lacking in even the slightest wrinkles, the once-conflicted dark eyes are now filled with energy radiating off youthful enthusiasm. A broad smile occupies his lips, accompanied by his brunette hair trimmed in a stylish manner to loosely crown his head, emphasizing his good looks.

He is dressed in a sharp suit, less flamboyant than the cream set he wore on his island, more business-like in a way which mirrored Bond’s own wardrobe when he was on a mission.

He looks……so _young._

Then Bond remembers where he once saw Silva like this: inside the manila folder now nothing but a pile of ash.

When he was still Tiago Rodrigues.

“Not exactly living the good life despite all your efforts, eh, Mr. Bond?” Tiago asks. He begins to inspect Bond’s apartment as if it’s the first time he’s been here, making faces at its condition.

“They used to be much more generous back in my days,” He said as he eyes the poorly-furnished apartment disapprovingly, before stopping in front of the dart board across the living room.

“But then again, money always brought you more with an under-established legal system. Such a shame it had to improve.”

The sweat from Bond’s workout was beginning to dry as London’s chilly night air crept into the apartment. He shivers as he puts on a shirt.

“What makes you say that, Mr. Rodrigues?” Bond answers with mock curiosity. “I would assume that men like us strive to build a better world. Or was it because of this realization that you decided on a change of career?”

“The legal system of the modern age only confines those who were either too apathetic to change it or too go weak to go against it.” Tiago says as he gestures towards the outer rings of Bond’s dart board. “In any society - barbarian or civilised - law exists purely for the sake of order. As long as it gains order through somebody being in the right and some in the wrong. Who truly deserves the punishment is irrelevant.”

He points at the bullseye of the dart board.

“Justice is something we would all like to believe in, but what is justice? To what extent of the greater good is classified inside the term ‘justice?’ By the way, I think we have already advanced past the point of formality. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink, _James_?”

Bond hesitates as he walks towards the liquor cabinet, accompanied by the phantom of a certain lingering brunette. The Tiago thing is really starting to catch up on him, because usually Silva would have been done with him by now.

Bond proceeds to pour himself a drink. As he suspiciously eyes the man extending his arm, he changes his mind. It would be rather rude to simply ignore a guests request for refreshments, even if the guest is nothing more than a mere hallucination.

Therefore instead of downing the contents he prepared for himself, Bond slides the glass over the marble countertop into the waiting hand of Tiago.

Tiago stops it.

Bond is really starting to get concerned now.

“Ah, thank you, James. You do know your drink.”

Tiago holds up the glass in a saluting gesture before turning to sip on its contents. A sudden knock on the door draws Bond’s attention away. Just as Bond turns to get it, Tiago stops him.

“Let them be, James. You can’t save everyone when you know they are not going to stay for long.”

Bond turns to check his security cameras on a panel near the entrance: outside of his apartment door stands a very aghast-looking Q. He clutches a folder of documents close to his chest as he eyes his environment nervously.

Allowing Q to enter his apartment with what seems to be classified information may appear to be the only reasonable response. But as Tiago subtly uses his body to block Bonds view connecting him with the outside world, Bond decides that he is going to have to attend to that later.

“Back to our conversation: I’m sure you have gone through your phase of obliviously passionate patriotism already. So why stay in the job when you know what you are working for isn’t even pure justice? MI6 sends its agents out on more death jobs every year than you can count. We are so expendable, so isolated from each other - like pawn pieces on a chess board – kept in the dark, concealed from the true purpose of the very missions we risk our lives for. MI6 does not want us to be confronted with its dark secrets. Can’t you see what you are working for here is a lost cause?”

Persistent knocking continues to abound on Bond’s apartment door, only this time when he turns to look at the monitor Q is gone.

Bond goes to investigate, Tiago snaps at him.

“Leave it, James. I said **_leave it_**.”

Bond frowns; he doesn’t like being told what to do.

“All this chatter, all this persuasion to degrade MI6. It sounds to me, **_Mr. Silva_** , that you are only trying to deny what little importance you held in this entire ordeal. ”

Bond takes an intrusive step towards Tiago. The brunette man holds his stance.

“Going beyond your brief hacking the Chinese government, you were traded because you screwed up. They were on to you, and you were of no more use to MI6. I will **_never_** make that same mistake because I am not here for the money or the power.”

Furious, Tiago smashes his glass onto the wooden floor, shards flying everywhere.

“Don't you dare insult my loyalty; I was a **_brilliant_** agent you have no hope to match.” He intoned with malevolence.

“Is that what you tell yourself every day, this stubborn sense of superiority? No wonder no one even bothered to plan your rescue for **_five months_**.”

The apartment door is banging loudly now as whoever is trying to gain access grows desperate. Both men ignored it. Out of the corner of his eye Bond sneaks in a fleeting glimpse at the security footage.

No one is there.

“Oh, soon you will see, Mr. Bond, all in due time. Soon you will see.” Tiago laughs knowingly. “They will make you, **_exactly_** what they made of me.”

The ground of the apartment suddenly starts shaking violently as if suffering from the shocks of an earthquake. The door bursts open, letting in a flood of liquid hydrogen cyanide which swallows them both. Bond sees red as the cyanide invades his lungs, suffocates him, burning him from the inside out. The drowning sensation takes him back to that fateful day on the moving train.

The former image of Tiago Rodrigues merges into Raoul Silva. Skin tissue melts away from him. His stomach is sunken from what looks like months of starvation, horrific scars start to grow on him like a viral infection.

 “But do you know what I was that you will **_never be_**?” his voice rasps in distortion.

Through cracked black teeth and missing cheekbones Silva laughs a frightening sound.

“ ** _Innocent_**.”

 

 

 

\----------

 

 

Bond jerks awake.

Alone.

Apparently he fell asleep on his bar stool. An empty plate with bread crumbs sits not too far away from him. That's strange; Bond doesn't remember making a sandwich.

He doesn't remember **_eating_** a sandwich.

He walks out of his kitchen into his living room, the shattered glass and overflowing cyanide is nowhere to be seen. A complete set of scotch glasses sits elegantly on a silver platter beneath Bond’s liquor cabinet; it feels cool to the touch as Bond takes one out to examine it.

Familiarity overwhelms him as Bond steps into the position where he supposedly was only moments ago. He stares into the now empty spot of where a man used to be.

Maybe Miss Moneypenny was right, he does need to see a psychiatrist.

The clock on his wall reads 1:12 a.m. Bond has been down for more than six hours.

The sandwich that he apparently consumed has long been digested as he can almost feel his stomach acids on the roof of his mouth. The corroding image of Tiago comes rushing back to him.

Bond thinks he is going to be sick.

He runs to the nearest sink and immediately empties all of his stomach contents, nothing but liquid comes out as he repeatedly gags into the sink, gasping for air, Bond slowly slid down the kitchen cabinet to collapse onto the tile flooring.

Just as he slowly begins to regain his breath, his ring tone goes off.

Cursing, Bond fumbles to answer it. Whoever it is on the other end better pray they have a damn good reason to be bothering him.

It turns out to be Q.

_“007. Where the hell have you been?!”_

“Q……” Bond acknowledges him as he rises from the floor and proceeds to rinse out his sink, pouring himself a glass of water to soothe his splitting headache.

“Did you just…. by any chance drop by for a visit?”

_“No, of course not, why would I do that? However, in the future, if I do decide to come by and harass you make sure you check your phone first before asking me why I’m there.”_

Bond turns to look at his phone. Thirteen miss calls.

 _“Back to more important things,”_ On the other end of the line Q was at home in his pyjamas sipping on a cup of Earl Grey. The room was unlit save for the glowing computer screens. Heavy drapery blocked out all sources of potential street light as Q sits as his desk with stacks of documents threatening to collapse.

_“If the information you provided me was correct, then all six of the agents traded for Silva’s custody must have been ghosts because they don't exist anywhere. Not even inside MI6’s master database, and believe me - that is extremely rare because even the 00s are recorded here.”_

The name Silva immediately caught Bond’s drifting attention.

“You’ve tried everything?”

_“Yes everything. I can’t go in too deep because I might be back traced, but where I am right now should cover most hostage exchanges. As far as I know they don't exist, 007.”_

Q continues to type on his laptop, a network of eight is linked together to create a mini master computer now occupying the majority of his study. Suddenly, one of them gives off a green flash.

_“Hold on, MI6 has one of the largest databases in the world. However most of it is scattered across the globe with certain sections not even connected to the main frame. It makes outside intrusions almost impossible but at the same time limits the amount of information inside operatives can access. I need to carefully tiptoe my way around several firewalls at a time in order to connect myself with a complete system of information.”_

Bond waits patiently as he downs the rest of his water before putting on a jacket and heading for the door. He needs some food and fresh air. Yesterday was the last day of his leave and he was scheduled for an appointment today at 6a.m. with M.

 _“Maybe I’ve been searching with the wrong method. 1986 to 1997 did you say?”_ Q brings up the files of all of the agents who either got captured or transferred during Silva’s period of service, then goes to cross reference them with his other data base to single out the few who had worked on missions in China.

Twenty-three names came up.

Out of these Twenty-three names, twelve were confirmed deaths and three were traded for before Silva’s supposed exchange. Q was able to pin-point about four from the remaining eight whose record was modified from being either once captured or missing back into active service after Silva’s downfall.

_“Okay, I think I might have something that loosely resembles the start of a list. Amy Loral, Brian Osbruke, Timothy Freeman and Phoebe Zhang. Any of them ring a bell?”_

Bond is passing the reception desk as he heads toward his vehicle parked across the street.

“Yeah, Timothy Freeman. He died in an explosion somewhere mid-January last year, I remember seeing his name chiselled on the wall.”

 _“This would be so much easier if we had the bloody list Silva took.”_ Q says as he sips on his now-cold tea.

“Do you know what happened to the other three?” Bond gets into his car and starts the engine. He pulls out of his parking space to merge together with London’s light mid-night traffic. The freezing winter air sends a shiver down his back as he opens the air conditioning vents.

 _“Give me a second…”_ Q puts the phone on speaker as he moves across the room to his other laptops. _“It would appear that Amy Loral died more than five years ago on a trip to Pakistan. Brian Osbruke was poisoned in his hotel suite not long after and Phoebe has been missing for over ten years, disappearance three month after she was back on service.”_ Q frowns at his search results.

_“I wasn't aware that the death rate for field operatives was this high.”_

“It isn’t. Can you get to the remaining two?”

_“No, nothing is coming up.”_

Beneath Bond’s calm facade his heart is beginning to sink.

“Well, keep looking there has to be something, someone I can talk to. The clues can’t end here.”

_“Excuse you, because this just sound so much easier said than done.”_

Both men remain on the line while Bond goes into a convenient store to purchase a meat roll and a bottle of drink. As he passes the flower section he quickly picks up a bunch of calla lilies. The store clerk isn’t subtle in avoiding eye contact with him. Bond doesn’t blame him - he figures he probably looks like a mess right now.

 _“By the way, 007,”_ Q speaks just as Bond re-enters his car. _“I heard that you were scheduled to have a meeting with M today.”_

“6a.m.” Bond bites into his roll, the meat tastes frozen but he is too hungry to care.

_“While scheduled meetings usually indicate a job, I wasn't informed to prepare any gadgets for you.”_

Bond didn’t like the situation of what Q seems to imply.

“Maybe the new M just wanted to check on my progress, _have a chat_.”

 _“Oh yes.”_ Q’s reply drips with so much sarcasm that Bond can almost hear his eyes rolling. _“Because you believe that just as much as I do.”_

Silence falls on them once more as Bond quickly finishes the remainder of his breakfast. He opens the can of energy drink before he pulls out of the parking lot.

_“I’m going to cut the line, I’ll keep looking but my senses are telling me that what we need is on the hard-drive Silva took. Very helpful since the one thing that could potentially help you reach the person you seek is with the very same person you are trying to reach.”_

Bond snorts. Isn’t it always like that?

 _“Oh yeah, one more thing before I go… Purely for the sake of paranoia and the doubt that my co-workers would be able to produce anything terribly impressive without me, if your meeting with M indeed turns out to be a job and you ever feel the need to_ unintentionally _lose or break something… I wouldn't worry too much about it.”_

“Note taken.”

_“Good luck out on the field, 007.”_

And then the line is cut.


	4. Chapter 4

When James Bond arrives, he is still painfully early – three more hours, in fact, before his scheduled meeting with M.

Bond passes the check points with several officers nodding towards him in salute. The metal detector goes off but no one acknowledges it.

He proceeds past the main office, junior agents gather upon the sight of him to whisper rumours about him and his past achievements. Some attempt to start a conversation with him; however they are discouraged by his haggard state.

Bond ignores them all and head straight towards the memorial wall. His feet bring him there without fault as he stands in contemplation in front of the only name that could not be made out.

 _I am going to find out what happened to you._ Bond silently promises as he placed the flowers at the foot of the wall.

Getting up to leave Bond caught a snippet of a familiar figure disappearing around the corner. Normally Bond would have immediately attempted to charm her into a conversation. But today, this day in particular, before he could even register what was going on, his body jumped ahead of his brain and quickly catches up with the figure to silently trail behind it.

Miss Moneypenny, since taking up a desk job has taken to a much more refined presence. In smart casual office attire which consisted of a cream coloured shirt, an ocean blue pencil skirt and a pair of white Chanel heels, her straightened silky black hair- in contrast to the untameable afro beforehand - flattered her waist line whilst swinging from left to right in movement that mirrored her steps.

But for once that was not what Bond was interested in.

Clutched tightly beneath her arm was an envelope, an ordinary-looking one to specify. However Bond knew that envelope, he knew that look of business on Miss Moneypenny’s face, and he knew that there was only one place that file was going.

It was destined for the top clearance section of MI6, where all the files documenting recent operations were held temporarily before incineration. A place only few operatives even knew existed.

For such a place of importance the safe keep room was rather low-key in appearance. With minimal surveillance and only two exits it gives off the unimportant vibe that most people, including Bond, would have over looked at first glance.

Miss Money Penny dropped the file in the chute, before turning to walk away casually like she just disposed of a sack of insignificant trash. Bond, around the corner waited patiently for another fifteen minutes to make sure she was not coming back.

The safe keep room rotated positions within the company every fortnight along with all the documents in it, the next location was picked out randomly in a sorting machine to ensure that inside operatives, as well as outside organisations could not be certain of its where about.  Lucky for Bond, the files inside were held for a minimum time of six weeks for processing. So if he plays his cards right and searched in the appropriate section, the one he was after may just still be in there.

He retreats the same way he came in, and then descends a level down into the training grounds of the organisation. After accidentally bumping into one of the security guards and taking his key badge Bond makes his way into the security sector with amazing ease.

He has been here long enough to know every leak in the system, every crawling crevice, so it wasn’t long before he ended up in the spot directly beneath his destination.

Once there he dismantles the air vent and climbs his way through to the room above. The safe keep room is held behind a small foyer; the antechamber itself doesn't contain any alarms so operatives can retrieve the file and read it there before putting it back. Decoding the locks was painfully easy once he was past the main entrance, if he ever got the chance to do so he will have to bring this up in a conversation with M.

He only has sixty seconds to retrieve the file before the alarm goes off, so Bond skims over columns of documents quickly, recognising several cases before his eye falls on the one he needed. It wasn't until he was safely behind the locks of a toilet cubicle, stolen envelope in hand, when the full weight of his actions sinks in on him.

Bond himself wouldn’t hesitate to classify his actions as treason. He had to return the file as soon as possible before someone gets the opportunity to report its absence.

For now, self-doubt was definitely out of the equation.

He slowly takes out the file hidden inside his suit jacket, careful not to wrinkle it in the process, and then holds it underneath the hand dryer to melt the glue sealing its opening. As he delicately pulls out its contents, he makes sure not to rip any of the envelope’s top flap.

 _Time to take matters into my own hands_ , Bond thought as he began to read the summary of the events from two months ago. It’s absolutely shocking how much information a few fragile pieces of paper could contain.

Information that he already knew, Bond notes to his frustration.

The document concluded with the sentence : “Report to M for aftermath documentation of Raoul Silva”, and just like that Bond found himself within half an hour from the time he was scheduled to consult with the above mentioned superior.

He knows he is not going to get another chance with the document so he takes extra precaution to preserve it with his phone in case he has another need for it. After being satisfied that he now possessed a backup copy of the information, he carefully slotted the pages back into the envelop to reseal it.

Bond exits the cubicle once he is certain he didn't share the space with any fellow colleagues. He calmly returns to the security sector before casually dropping the temporarily-borrowed badge into a blind spot on the same hallway where he bumped into the guard.

Bond glances at his watch: ten more minutes.

As he wiggles through the air vent, an unusual thought flashes across his mind. But it was gone in an instant and Bond didn’t have time to recollect it. He was going to be late.

Late for a mission briefing most likely concerning global welfare.

 _Great. Bloody fantastic._ Bond sarcastically remarks to himself as he struggles to lift the metal filter off the floor. Once his clammy hands do the job he hastily advances towards the smaller door to decode the locks.

Only to find that it wasn’t locked.

Someone else was already in there.

“007? What on earth are you doing in here?”

Just as Bond decides that it’s probably in his best interest to leave, he comes head to head with the man he was rushing to see. Standing in the doorway with a document in hand is a very surprised M.

“Sir.” Is all Bond manages to spit out as his heart skips a beat. The envelop inside his suit jacket was beginning to burn like a blazing fire. M eyes Bond knowingly for a moment before speaking.

“Last time I checked, this room still wasn’t clear for the field operatives, so I suggest you spill everything you’ve got going this minute or I’m filing you for a security breach.”

Bond was at a loss of what to say. He was almost certain that M did not know of the already missing envelop he had in his possession, because if he did then they would be on their way down to the isolation cell already, companied by at least half a dozen guards.

“With all due respect sir,” Bond needed to choose his words carefully. “But did you have any knowledge of the fact that Silva might have escaped the incident alive two months ago?”

That's all he was, a curious agent aiming to avenge the death of his beloved former commander.

M gives him a look which says him he guessed as much. “Yes. I was the one that declared him dead when there was a clear lack of body.”

“But why? Why not have more agents go after him? We know the danger he poses to MI6 and yet we’re allowing him to roam free?” Bond finds it easier now that he doesn’t have to fake his curiosity. He supposes he could use M’s side of the story to complete the picture.

M sets the documents he was holding down onto the coffee table before gesturing for Bond to join him on the opposite two-seater couch. He takes out two glasses from beneath the coffee table and pours them both a drink.

“007, Silva still has that list. The night after you left the estate only one body remained for the team to discover an hour later. We found no traces of the other one and believe me when I say we looked. It was Silva who contacted us first after the ordeal.”

Now it was Bond’s turn to be genuinely surprised. “What did he demand? Did he blackmail MI6 with the list?”

“No,” M takes a sip of his drink and shook his head. “Surprisingly, no. He made no further demands, no threats; he didn’t seem to be interested in anything. He only made an offer: in exchange for our silence on the matter that he survived he would refrain from posting any more names. It was our best shot at the time as we stand to lose nothing by simply conjuring a fake death. Turns out he kept his word. We are still on the hunt for him, but only in the shadows because we know he is not to be trusted. He could turn against us as quickly as he decided to work with us, but for now we have more important issues at hand. ”

M picks up the documents from the surface in front of them and offers them to Bond.

“Drug lord crisis in Congo, think you are up for it 007?”

Inside the diminutive unlit room the only exterior lighting penetrating the space filters in from a small shuttered window. Streaks of golden morning rays illuminate M’s features in a crepuscular silhouette. Bond squints against the bright lights which prevent him from making out the other man’s expressions.

In a rare moment of uncertainty, he hesitates. 

“Of course sir, ready at your command.” After a long moment of mind-puzzling doubt Bond takes the offer whilst brushing his thoughts aside. He knows it is the best deal he is going to get.

M gives Bond an approving nod of his head in gratitude for his understanding before rising to leave. His back seems tense from the frequent early morning conversations. Grey already beginning to sprout from the depth of his immaculately combed hair, he reminded Bond more of his predecessor in the position than of Mallory from merely two months ago.

“Oh yeah, one more thing,” Just as M is about to open the blast proof door re-connecting them with the outside world, he turns to address Bond as if in a casual afterthought.

“If I were you, 007, this would end here.”

 

\----------

 

 

Bond never got the chance to return the envelope.

He was escorted personally out of the safe keep room by M himself and his plane left within an hour of the haste briefing.

Prior to Bonds departure, a junior agent handed him a small suit case which included all of the personal belongings he would require for the mission. Turns out Q’s little speculation of his colleagues work-related capabilities could not have been more accurate, Bond reflects as he carelessly tosses the cliché pen-shaped stun gun into his suit pocket.

Opposite the disenchanted-looking Bond sits Agent Roger Carter of the DEA; he made no comment regarding the pen as he, too, looks unimpressed. He filled Bond in on the details of his mission and advised him that once they land in Kinshasa he will have the day to get ready before they infiltrate the harbour at nightfall.

Inside intelligence informed them that tonight will be the primary build-up shipment of the year for one of Africa’s most potent drug trafficking organisations, if they manage to cease this shipment if would no doubt jeopardise the reputation of the entire alliance, making it much more easier to break down piece by piece in the aftermath.

Bond, attention drifting from the dull discussion, focuses more on his view from the air craft window.

The Democratic Republic of the Congo is a country located in central Africa, being the second largest country by area with a population of over 71 million. Its capital, Kinshasa, is a beautifully lush city settled on the side of the Congo River.

Ground transport in the DRC has always been difficult. The terrain and climate of the Congo Basin present serious barriers to road and rail way construction, the distances to cover were enormous across the vast country.

Chronic economic mismanagement and internal conflict has also led to serious under-investment over many years. On the other hand, the DRC has thousands of kilometres of navigable waterways, and traditionally water transport has always been the dominant means of moving around approximately two-thirds of the country.

Upon landing Bond is transported to his hotel suite directly overlooking the harbour. Once he’s sure the rooms are clear of surveillance he cracks open a plank of wood atop the concrete flooring, and proceeds to place the envelop he still un-willingly possesses underneath it.

Once this operation was over he would have to find another way to return it, the mission was going to be a swift one so he should be on his return flight tomorrow afternoon. Right now he can only hope in optimism that no one will be in need of it anytime soon.

Nightfall comes quickly as Bond assembles with the small army of SWAT team.

He is not going to be taking part in the actual confiscation of the drugs, as the SWAT officers are quite capable of doing their job. Instead, something else requiring a more delicate touch will be his prime focus for the night.

Considering this to be the biggest shipment of the year, leaders within both the drug producing organisation as well as the trafficking alliance will be present to make sure things run smoothly. Whilst they strike deals and play poker it will be Bond’s duty to make sure that none of them return to their respective hideouts. 

The trade of drug dealing is a complex one.  Minor bands of small time crooks who sell what they can aside, proper organisations have their specific growers typically located within a still-developing country. They harvest from the plantations then go through strict quality control to manufacture according to the client’s needs. The same batch of cargo is then transported to other continents where local associations receive the product to split up and sell individually to smaller branches.

Up-rooting the entire trade is basically impossible, but picking out the more notorious mobs within Britain is a decent start. It has been a long and tiring battle; even too time consuming for MI6 to sort through, should majority of the funding for this shipment not come from a terrorism related background.

Agent Carter gives Bond the go-ahead signal through his ear piece as he joins the SWAT team to start the operation. Bond, silently trailing down the footpath leading to the ship’s interior subdues several guards with his stun pen to make sure they won't be coming to anyone’s rescue.

His main duty for the night was to capture, not kill, therefore prior to the mission he was granted a speciality weapon which enabled him to shoot sedatives instead of normal bullets. The gun itself was quite impressively designed, however it limited the amount of bullets he can carry, hence the more frequent physical combat.

Clad in his immaculate Tom Ford sharkskin suit, Bond stops just short of the supposed gathering hall, which upon inspection housed all three of the suspects due for capture tonight.

Everything was going…exceptionally well.

Bond speculates that something is not right, his superior sixth sense alerts him that it will be in his best interest to refrain from making any sudden movements. He waits patiently in the darkness for Agent Carter to give him further instructions. The men in the hall appear to be oblivious to what’s going on outside, as they wine and dine unaware that this will likely mark their last supper.

To Bond’s surprise Agent Carter gives him the final green light to shoot sedatives on sight of target. Bond suppresses his urge to further investigate as he pulls out his gun to aim at one of the three men. The first goes down without struggle, immediately alerted, the other two make a run for the exit. During their brief moment of panic Bond is able to get a good shot on the neck of the second men. The third disappears up the stairway as Bond reloads and sprints after him.

The final target is a man in his late forties, being inside a trade which promised him considerable wealth he was rather overweight from the affluent lifestyle accompanied by a lack of exercise. Bond catches up easily and presses the cold metal tip of his stun pen into his back.

The man shakes violently as a steady bolt of electricity flies through him; he falls to the ground with a loud crash. Bond surveys the man beneath him, coming to the conclusion that he won’t be waking up any time soon. He handcuffs the man and then reports his location to the backup operatives.

He is given the impression of a job well done until Agent Carter specifies to leave the body and return to the dining hall downstairs.

Bond does as he was asked; only when he arrives this time, he’s greeted by a herd of furious-looking bandits. The backup operatives which should have taken the unconscious men into custody already are nowhere to be seen.

“Mr Bond…” A swarthy man speaks with a heavy French assent. “I think we need to talk.”

Bond stands still for a moment in bewilderment; he contemplates the situation at hand, and then immediately decides to make a run for it before they could shoot him in between the eyes.

There is no shame in attempting escape when one is clearly out-numbered.

He fires several shots of sedatives which hit two men in the chest as he hurries past without sparing them a second glance. Inwardly Bond curses as he rounds a corner, narrowly missing a barrage of bullets, heart racing and adrenalin pumping he shouts into a small microphone clipped to his collar, demanding backup.

Silence on the other end, Bond notes, no longer to his surprise.

 _I am going to personally break Carter’s nose if I make it out of this alive_. Bond promises to himself as he vaults over the ships railings, landing in the ocean with a huge splash. Above, angry African men fired rounds of bullets into the water still disturbed by the 00 agent’s dive.

Bond holds his breath underneath the water, carefully swimming away as he makes sure not to make any obvious splashes on top of the water surface. The subtle rippling of the sea at night provided him with sufficient camouflage to secure his escape.

Once he’s out of the armed men’s sight, Bond resurfaces to greedily inhale air into his oxygen-deprived body. He emerges near the harbour’s entrance, dripping saltwater, as men in the distance circle the area with torches. Bond sneaks behind a large shipping container as he eyes his environment attentively.

There is no way they are going to find him now; he probably looked like a ghost underneath the silver moonlight.  

Shivering from the strong offshore winds, Bond swiftly discards his suit jacket in attempt to preserve body heat. Just as he does so something in his jacket pocket gives off a little red flash.

Curious, Bond reaches down to grab it through the sodden material.

It was his stun pen.

The next emotion to register in his mind is one of complete desolation as a current of electricity flows straight through him. He drops to the ground still clutching the pen, contracted muscles unable to let go.

In the distance, he sees a bright torch light being shone into his face.

Bond squints: it was Carter.

He smiles a devilish smile as he waves towards the others to join him. Clad in a set of bandit ghillie uniform, somehow Bond knew he wasn’t signalling out to the SWAT team.

Bond slowly slips into unconsciousness as Carter studies him with fascination, voicing something which Bond barely makes out:

“Insidious rat.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Silva finally makes his grand entrance, nearly HALF WAY through the fic.

“You know, I would have done much better than that.”

“.........”

“Argh, remote control stun gun disguised as a pen, so painfully obvious.”

“……...”

“It seems like MI6 has taken a major step back in history, they simply lack the creativity to execute their agents any other way. When I was still a part of the trade we used to…”

“……...”

Bond had no doubts that he must be on the brink of finally losing it.

He has regained consciousness for almost forty-eight hours now, but so far no one’s made any attempt to communicate with him, save for the agitating phantom he is now desperate to get rid of.

“Oh, so rude James; soon you will be glad that you have me here to keep you company.” The man sporting a head-full of artificially blond hair taunts as he leans in to survey the chained-up Bond.

He is the spitting image of the man who Bond once saw at his ancestral home. He wore a thick leather coat accompanied by a black woollen turtleneck sweater. The white cords connecting his ear piece to the device hidden inside his coat provided a subtle contrast with his ashen features. Even the obscured details which Bond does not remember ever having noticed was displayed for him to see.

Despite the suffocating heat of an African summer, the man does not seem to sweat. He keeps his pale complexion radiating a certain chilly sensation whenever he gets too close to Bond.

“You know what they do to agents like you? The little gems that they claim to be unbreakable?” The man circles Bond without difficulty despite him being chained to a wall.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He makes a flipping gesture with his hands. “They simply leave you. For days, weeks, months at a time. With no one to talk to, close to no food or water, it’s worse than most forms of physical torture. Poor little James. ”

Bond bites down hard on his tongue to supress his urge to mouth a stream of impertinent insults. As much as he has already given away to indicate his fraying state of mind, he cannot afford to have them believe that he has completely lost control.

Although Bond would never admit it, he tends to agree with Silva on this matter. He didn’t think they would let him off very easily either. After all he has broken into what was their biggest shipment of the year, jeopardising the entire scheme with his heedless impetuosity.

Bond drops his head as a sudden feeling of nausea overwhelms him; he has been without food or water for at least two days now, being inside a poorly ventilated dungeon with asphyxiating humidity only made matters worse.

He tugs against his restraints weakly; he licks his tooth embedded with the cyanide capsule. Silva laughs somewhere in the background in a bodiless echo.

If MI6 still plans on rescuing him then they’d better hurry up.

A loud squeak interrupts Bond from his thoughts. The heavy iron gate marking the entrance to his holding cell swings open as a group of armed men walks in.

One of them strides quickly towards Bond, then lands a heavy blow to his face. Bond grunts, but he was too drained to make even the slightest verbal comeback.

Satisfied, the man walks back to join the rest of the group. They stood watching as Bond fought to remain conscious, blood dripping from a cut on his lip.

“Mr… Bond, I would assume?” A voice asks. Bond was too dizzy from the impact to even figure out which one of them was speaking to him.

“I believe that you have something belonging to us.”

Confused, Bond lifts his head before answering: “I don't know what you are talking about.”

The man shook his head at the 00 agent.

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I am talking about,” He said as he makes his way over to Bond. “ _Thirty million worth of cargo.”_

Bond knelt before the man in a surge of disbelief, before briefly recalling the mission he was a part of. They didn't honestly think he actually knew where their stock is, did they? He was just a field operative; he isn’t even classified for information like that.

“Your cargo was confiscated by the DEA, where they choose to re-locate it is beyond my classification. If this is what it’s about then-”

He was rudely interrupted when another man hits him across the face.

“Mr. Bond, I would suggest in mutual benefit that you stop lying and tell us the truth. You didn't think that I would be where I am now without a few friends inside the force, did you?”

Bond feels cold sweat starting to gather on his back, he does not like where this is going.

“Well, my few friends inside the force informed me that they don’t have it. In fact the cargo was gone long before their troops got there and the mission was cancelled until further notice.”

He leans into Bond’s personal space, and then grabs him by the chin in a bruising grip to make sure Bond receives the accumulating anger inside his eyes.

“Remember, you shot some of my men, but you didn't kill them, and for that I am grateful. I can’t say that you will escape this unscratched, because our clients need some convincing evidence that the man responsible for the delay has been thoroughly punished. However I will allow you to walk away from this alive. In exchange I only ask for one measly favour, _where did MI6 take my stock?”_

He lets go of Bond’s chin, and then turns to exit the room.

“This is the best offer you are going to get, so have a good think about it.”

Just as the door to his cell is about to close again Bond stops them.

“Wait.” He calls as he feels the need to clear things up.

“I, with all seriousness, haven’t the slightest clue where your cargo might be. Agent Roger Carter of the DEA, that's the man you should be after. He was the one who briefed me on this mission and the one who subdued me so I could be captured by you. He is clearly trying to frame me for something that I haven’t done, so if you really have the friends you claim you do then you would go find him instead of wasting your time on me.”

The man looks at Bond, expression blank. He signals for the entrance of a team of men, each carrying various types of equipment.

“If that is your final answer, then I must admit that I am very disappointed, Mr. Bond.” He whispers something to one of the men and they slowly form a circle closing in on Bond.

“Let’s see how long it takes us to _refresh_ your memory.”

 

 

\----------

 

 

Days and nights start to blur together in his tiny, windowless holding cell. Through the pain and torture and smouldering summer heat, Bond persists: in hope of rescue, in hope of release, and in hope of the queen and country he so willingly defends with whatever fight is left in him to turn around and realize that one of their own has fallen.

That one of their own needs help. 

But no one comes.

Nothing but darkness and the echoing footsteps of death.

 

 

\----------

 

 

The torture resistance training in MI6 was dull and painfully conventional. Bond had the unfortunate encounter with this compulsory training during the second year of his career in espionage. And god forbid the tedious course to continue its pointless existence, because all he got out of that was how to keep count of numbers despite everything else that may occur around him.

That, as surprising as anything could get in Bond’s life, turned out to be very useful now.

He counts through his unbearable hours alone in his cell. He counts through skin being marked with sharp blades and melting iron. He counts through being forced into buckets of ice water until he can no longer feel his face. He counts through famine, suffocation and severe dehydration.

He counts - no matter what they do to him, no matter what they threaten, he suffers in silence and keeps his count.

It is what MI6 has taught him: to keep count and never lose track of time. Because the moment you start to drift away from reality - the moment you forget that there is another world outside, a world that is not this - that is the moment you break.

And it is when he reaches exactly five weeks and three days when things take a turn for the worse.

Bond lifts his head in agony to get a better view of the man who now occupies the space before him. He is a towering African with circles of indigenous patterns marking his face. The index and thumb of his left hand is missing from clean cuts. Monstrous scars wrap around his body as they disappear into a white tank top stained yellow from the lack of wash. Stern expression on his face, this is a man who has been through war and has tasted real blood.

He pulls out a gun and aligns it with Bond’s forehead.

“Tell me about the shipment. Or I shoot you.” he demands in a calm voice. Bond has absolutely no doubts that he will do exactly what he promises if Bond doesn't spit out the cargo’s location this precise moment.

Somewhere in between the torture sessions a man would walk in with a recorder to document Bond’s decaying physique. Bond speculates that they must have already used it to blackmail MI6, only to receive no feedback.

The trafficking alliance is losing their patience as the deadline for their order draws near. If they don't get the information they need out of Bond soon, none of them are going to survive.

Truth be told, if Bond actually knew the location of the cargo he would have told them by now. And that double-dealing son of a bitch Carter is going to meet his demise at the hands of Bond if he survives to flee Africa.

But Bond isn’t going to waste his energy explaining in the hope that they eventually understand him; he has already shot that maiden in the face.

With the last string of dignity suspending him from enteral damnation beneath, as if sensing it to be his final words, instead of begging for mercy like most men would naturally do in his situation, James Bond, senior agent 007 of MI6 manages to spit out a clean and unmistakeable:

“Fuck you.”

The African soldier does not look too impressed. With a sharp flick of the hand, he shoots Bond straight through his right kidney.

Bond lets out a loud grunt of pain; he feels life spilling out of him as crimson stains the dirt beneath him. The African soldier allows him a moment to recover, before slowly pointing the gun towards his left kidney.

“Last chance, Mr. Bond.”

Bond swallows the blood rushing up his throat; he looks the soldier dead in the eyes.

“Fuck. You.”

Time seems to slow to a complete stop as the man’s finger tightens around the gun trigger. Bond hears a gun shot, however it’s too faint, too distant to have been the one to end his life.

The soldier - immediately realizing something is wrong - gives Bond one last kick to the stomach before retreating. The guard of Bond’s cell shuts the iron door with a heavy thump and Bond is again left on his own.

Seconds or maybe minutes later the suppressed sound of a single bullet fired through a silencer echoes through the air, rough friction of clothing to dirt follows soon after.

Bond’s cell door once again squeaks open, flashing lights of the dim hallway frames the man now occupying the entrance to his cell in a dark silhouette.

The combination of his weakened state and blood loss must be getting to him, because he cannot believe what he is seeing. _It can’t be._

Silva, in all his now-brunet glory surveys the space in a floor-to-ceiling scan as he waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Upon making eye contact with Bond his lips twitches into something which could almost pass off as a smile.

“Glad to see I’m not the last rat standing.”

Bond attempts to convince himself that this is just another one of his delusions; but Silva doesn’t give him the opportunity as he reaches to touch his earpiece.

“We need to go.” He states bluntly as he opens Bond’s restraints with the keys he just found on the guard, before grabbing Bond by the arm to haul him up.

Bond doesn’t struggle; he follows Silva in silence as he rushes to message the feeling back into his arm. He watches as Silva uses silencer shots to put down the first two men they encounter with deadly accuracy, barely making a sound as they hit the ground.

Bond doesn’t know what to make of this, as days stretched into weeks without rescue, all hope had long fled.

Out of all the friends he’d expect to rescue him, and the foes he’d suspect to come and finish him off - Silva doesn't rank very high on either.

As they continue down the dimly lit corridors leaving a behind a trail of blood, a sudden realization hits Bond. He didn’t know how much further he can go. He has been shot, years of experience in the field tells him that such a clean and direct shot through the kidney means that there is absolutely no way he can salvage the situation.

The knowledge that his kidney will slowly fail to filter the blood circulating his body, ultimately leading him to his death engulfs him like climbing vines thriving on the nutrients of a dead man’s carcass, eating away what little optimism Bond had left.  

At some point he falls, the footsteps of armed officers rushing towards his former cell echoes around him. I guess this is it, Bond thinks to himself. A laugh of amusement escapes his dry and damaged throat. I guess I won’t be making it to retirement after all.

But it won’t end like this, because Silva, upon realizing Bond has fallen behind, comes back for him.

Bond wants to tell the brunet man that it’s no use, that his fate would remain unchanged. Surely if Silva was the agent he claimed to be then he would have already noticed. But Bond doesn’t say a word, he watches Silva’s every move like an injured lion would inspect a fellow coalition male.

Not knowing if he could place his trust and unsure of the man’s intentions, Bond allows Silva to man-handle him once more, because he simply does not wish to be left behind.

Left to perish, to decay as a nameless corpse. Left to become nothing but a mere name on a stone wall he no longer views with untainted respect.

Silva wraps Bond’s arm around his neck whilst ordering him to keep pressure on his wound. The ex-00 agent’s accuracy decreases with his lone arm, but they manage to make it through the dungeon and up to ground level in one piece.

The ground level is littered with bodies. Silva’s men have already sunk their claws in deep and are now working on eliminating every last enemy.

They dive for cover behind a fallen desk as they emerge from the stairs. Both men drop to the ground with a thunderous crash, Silva’s bullet-proof jacket and black trousers now soaked in a mixture of Bond’s blood and concrete dust.

Blind firing has never been neither man’s strong suit, but luckily persistence is. And after using a dead man’s body as shield they make it outside to a parked SUV loaded with anaesthetics.

Silva lays Bond down on the backseat and injects him with several unlabelled fluids; he then roughly treats Bond’s more fatal wounds before hooking him up to a nutrient drip.

Bond tries to exit the vehicle in an absurd attempt purely for the sake of being unco-operative, only to be punched in the face then shoved violently back into position as Silva straps his seatbelt.

“Don’t.” Silva hisses underneath his breath. “JUST DON’T.”

“Where are you taking me?” Bond asks in his first real attempt at conversation with the man today, vision already starting to blur from the loss of blood.

Silva climbs into the back with Bond and orders the man in the driver seat to hit the road, the silent henchman steps onto the acceleration paddle so hard that it thrusts Bond’s body backwards into the leather seating with paralysing force. Silva doesn’t even acknowledge Bond’s question, instead he starts shouting something non-English into his earpiece, most likely a series of commands as Bond notices several vehicles take off behind them.

Since his eyes are giving up on him, Bond tries to map out his location by the speed which the four wheel drive is going and the amount of turns taken.

He fails.

Silva continues to make no effort in restraining Bond as he concentrates on attending to the agent’s other injuries. He seems unfazed while their transport descends down a hill in an ‘S’ formation, narrowly missing several oncoming vehicles.

At this point, Bond can barely support himself in a seating position against the door of the backseat. His body threatens to fall at every bump caused by his speeding transport driving down the disgracefully maintained dirt roads of rural Kinshasa.

He can no longer feel his stomach. Where the burning pain was only moments ago are now replaced by a squeezing sensation. It ties together his intestines and precludes his lungs contact with oxygen. The world becomes distant to him as blurs of green and brown and grey passes by, leaving behind traces of images like a symphony of slowly evaporating photographs taken by an old camera.

Silva checks for cognizance by attempting to engage Bond in a conversation, he swears violently in Spanish when the agent does not respond.

Bond feels his ride come to a complete stop as Silva exits from the vehicle, only to return moments later with a black satchel overflowing with gold bars and a bucket of ice.

In any other instance Bond would have immediately questioned the legality of the above mentioned contents of the satchel.  But today was one of exception because his attention is drawn to the bucket instead.

Through his blurred vision, a clear plastic bag sealed half-heartedly sits inside.

For some abstruse reason, as if sensing it to be an item of importance, Bond’s sight depicts it with nauseating clarity. Already leaking crimson into its surroundings is a sight Bond would likely never forget with years to come.

A kidney.

Bond only lasts until they reach their second destination. Feelings of hands around his body, and the view of Silva taking the bucket were the last things he recalls before he slips into complete darkness.

 

 

\----------

 

 

_“…now cleared for active duty…”_

_“…who he works for and who has the list…terminate him...”_

_“…you are ready for this.”_

_“…medical evaluation: FAIL. Physical evaluation: FAIL. Psychological evaluation…”_

_“Pathological rejection of authority based on unresolved childhood trauma…”_

_“… not approved for field duty and immediate suspension...”_

_“…if not betrayal? ...knowing you are not ready, knowing you will likely die...”_

_“…VERY BAD.”_

_“…If I were you 007, this would end here…_

_…end here.”_

 

 

\----------

 

 

Sometimes in life the most obvious of realizations only come when one is on the brink of their demise. Your entire existence flashes before your eyes and you suddenly focus on the minor details you overlooked first time round like a bad freeze frame on a lagging computer.

In this case, Bond feels like something just clicked magically into place.

“He started operating beyond his brief, hacking the Chinese. The hand-over was coming up and they were on to him. So I gave him up. I got six agents in return and a peaceful transition.”

As ironic and karmic as things turned out that was exactly what he was doing: operating beyond his brief, hacking his own organization, snooping around in the highest clearance level of MI6 when he bloody knew he shouldn’t be there; even going as far as being stupid enough to be caught red-handed by M himself, then proceeding to make no efforts in redeeming himself during the aftermath what-so-ever because he just can’t seem to let this one go.

He was so close, so close to the truth.

The truth he knew in the back of his head all this time, the truth that he denied.

 

 

\----------

 

 

Bond wakes to the continual beeping of machinery.

The smell of disinfectant reeks inside the tiny rundown shack. He is on a bed that doesn’t appear to have been washed in months. Drapery floats to the welcoming breeze which tickles Bond’s nose. Beside him is a wall of opened cupboards holding ingredients Bond can’t hope to identify beneath the dust and muck.

A guard sits asleep not far away from him. Bond coughs.

The guard jerks awake, making immediate eye contact with Bond; he then turns to leave the space, most likely informing someone before Bond could make any requests.

An old and bone thin man strides into the room, he eyes Bond questionably, then checks the bags of fluids hanging above him to make sure that they are still providing his patient with the substances he need. He inspects Bond’s abdomen as he flips up his make shift hospital gown, blocking Bond’s view in the process.

“Very well.” He speaks through heavily accented English. “You heal very well.”

Bond doesn’t speak, his throat is still too sore from the lack of lubrication to produce understandable sounds, but the man has apparently treated enough patients to understand his needs. He brings Bond a glass of water before hooking him up to another drip.

“No eating. Food hurt you.” He said pointing to the drip. “This for now.”

Bond manages to nod before the doctor exits. The guard re-enters then tucks him in before returning to his seat. Bond lays still staring at the peeling ceiling paint, mind drifting away.

Whatever Silva wants with him, whatever value he had left, he is alive, and that is what matters.

If nothing else does.

007 lives on.


	6. Chapter 6

Bond’s days dragged on with little conversation.

The doctor was only in three times a day to check on his improving progress. The guard didn’t speak English, his angular features of African descent was often emotionless and stone-cold serious.

He made no attempt to stop or follow Bond whenever he went to visit the bathroom, and only got up to assist Bond when he was requested of or when Bond decided to venture outside of the shack as his health slowly returns to him.

Even during those sessions the guard trails behind loosely, more like a documenter to report Bonds daily activities than a form of restraint to keep him hostage.

The semi-hospitalisation only lasted five days before Bond no longer needed to shuffle around with the IV drip. Just as Bond begins to think that Silva would never show, he wakes from his fresh habit of taking a daily afternoon nap to find the man in place of the guard, reading a report.

“Evening, Mr. Bond.” The man greets without looking up from his papers.

Bond notices that Silva looked even paler than he last saw him; horrific dark circles hang from his eyes half hidden by the disheveled locks of light brown hair. He also had a considerable cut located just above his eyebrows, which had no dressing on it save for a couple thin strips of surgical tape.

He seems relaxed, however, despite his questionable physical health. Little efforts were made to button up the majority of his beige cotton top; he also carries no visible weaponry, Bond concludes as his trained eyes traces over the man’s worn looking trousers.

“Evening, Mr. Silva.”

“I see that you have taken the transplant well.” Silva nods in satisfaction, voice light and enthusiastic as if seeing the recovery of a lifelong friend.

“So lucky for you that there was one of appropriate condition nearby.”

Silva absently turns over pages of documents as his eyes the evidently healthier Bond, seeming quite content with the results. In any other days Bond would have co-operated with Silva, kept the petty conversation flowing, dance around with his prey a bit before he goes in for the kill.

But this was not any other day. After months of hiding, lying and spying Bond found himself tangled in a momentary web of utter frustration before he decides: _To hell with it all._

“Why did you do it?” Bond asks, as bluntly as one could possibly get.

“Oh, Mr. Bond _,_ you would know better than I do.” Silva shakes his head in disapproval.

“You’ve had a malfunctioning left kidney since birth, and unlucky for the drug traffickers they shot your only good one. With nothing but a measly under-developed _baby_ kidney left to support your entire system, it was not going to be long before a full scale kidney failure takes over. ”

Silva used his tongue to make a stream of clicking sounds against the roof of his mouth, which to Bond’s annoyance, accompanied the shaking motion of his head.

Bond was not going to take any of this circumlocution.

“You know very well that is not what I meant. Now why did you do it? ”

Silva eyes him with a stern look, and then suddenly flings the stack of paper he has been reading across the room in a swift movement, disposing of it in the bin. He leans forward to make direct and unmistakable eye contact with Bond.

Legs uncrossed and expression now dead serious, the playful air vanishes from him like the images of an unplugged monitor.

“I did what had to be done, because you need to be _alive_ in order to learn.”

“I wasn’t aware that there was more to be learnt.”

“Ha! Which explains your current situation, hmm?” Silva raised both of his hands in an exaggerated attempt to frame Bonds current state of convalescence.

Bond smirks in retrospect; maybe he did have a point.

“I was going to wait. Wait patiently like they have always taught me back in the day. ” Silva surveyed the ceiling above their heads briefly as if in memory of the golden days, he then proceeded to close the space between them until Bond could almost taste the gunfire and antiseptics on him.

“But I grew tired of waiting for your realization that would **_never_** come.”

“Do you really think that MI6 still puts you on missions - despite your aging physique, because they regard you with respect? No, **_no,_** Mr. Bond. You are a mascot, a mere icon to act as bait in order to draw in fresh blood for them. The little junior rats love a legend.

“At least, that’s one reason. Come here and let me show you something.”  Silva opens the weather-resistant and shock-absorbent suitcase sitting beside his chair to reveal his laptop.

Bond frowns, the scene unfolding in front of him possess an uncanny resemblance to the one he shared with Silva back on his island not long ago. Only then things were much different.

Somehow, Bond was always one step behind the ex-00 agent sitting before him. Even during the events at Skyfall - a stage he set up for Silva’s downfall, Silva managed to get uncomfortably close to achieving his goal.

If Silva hasn’t hesitated (which Bond concludes he did twice after he viewed the security footage of the ordeal at Whitehall) he would have already successfully killed M and gotten away.

This man puzzles him: he wants neither revenge nor compensation from Bond.

Silva traces his fingertips over the keyboard with lightening efficiency, entering commands which flash across the screen too fast for even Bond’s eye to catch. A list of all MI6 agents who ever engaged in active service appears and for the first time in months Bond becomes absolutely certain that chasing up Silva’s case was a bad idea.

“Oh look, **_here is your file._** ” Silva turns to address Bond with sinister gleaming in his eyes. He presents his laptop to Bond, placing the opportunity in the younger man’s hands just like the devil would have done to some poor impecunious soul.

The metal case of the electronic device radiates coolness against Bond’s heated skin. Bond contemplates that he should be avoiding the thing like the Black Death right now, for all he knows this could be false information, a deceiving counterfeit conjured in attempt to test his loyalty.

However, despite Silva’s hypocrisy, he did save Bond’s life. It would be rather… interesting, just to see what the man had come up with.

With that in mind, Bond quickly manages to convince himself that he was going to take a peek purely for the sake of his curiosity. What he discovers though, he soon wishes he hasn’t. 

_Subject shows embedded pathological rejection of authority, with suspicions of unhealthy obsession associated with past case confirmed. Subject is now declared unfit for further operations with continued lack of supervision deemed unsafe for British secret intelligence._

_Manual termination required._

**_Termination successful._ **

Last update less than a month ago, shortly after his capture.

_The same red stamp._

But this couldn’t be; his loyalty to the queen and country is unquestionable. He had no motives to betray them; he has dedicated his entire life to the service of MI6.

“Oh…but it is.” Silva taunts in confirmation as though sensing Bond’s disbelief.

“They haven’t changed, not one bit. They have set you up, Mr. Bond. How else would the drug traffickers have found out about your location? How else would they have been so sure that you knew the cargo’s whereabouts when in reality you hadn’t a single clue?

“If even the slightest speculations materialize, they will torture you for the information you do not have. They would grow agitated in wait and eventually be done with you. You will be shot, and then have your lifeless body tossed into the wild African jungle, feasted upon by jackals and hyenas. Which all, if I may suggest would have gone exactly according to plan had I not intervened.

“Truly glorious way to go out, isn’t it? An agent once so brilliant, so outstanding, so _precious_ like yourself reduced to nothing but a name engraved into a chunk of futile stone, not even a grave for successors to mourn upon.”

Silva’s voice lowers until becomes nothing more than a whisper in the face of a very frail-looking Bond. In the distance the coral sunset lit Silva’s features ablaze in a symphony of shadows. With the vivid tinges of purple and blue beneath his eyes the man looked like an apparition of death.

“You were used, and then discarded. Just like I was.”

“Why do you think it is that next to no 00 has ever made it to retirement? We have to defend ourselves from lurking enemy predators during our missions, retrieve top secret government documents, assassinate officials who were deemed impossible to harm, and to top all of that, keep an eye out for the very organization we work for. Because all it takes is one mistake, one reason for them to question your loyalty then **_beep_** , you are eliminated.

“Tossed in the trash like a used rag. _So expendable, so replaceable_.”

“This isn’t how it is, and it doesn’t change a thing between us.” Bond snarls back at Silva as he clings on to his last fragment of dignity in front of the man whom he least wishes to see him like this.

“ _It doesn’t need to,_ _Mr. Bond_. What it does need to do, however, is for you to snap out of your optimistic delusion. Would you like more evidence, the authoritative statistics that previous agents before you wrote with their own blood?

“ _Manually terminated_.” Silva lets out a lengthy sound of laughter which echoed off the bare walls of the small room.

“Manually, because we cannot be exterminated by circumstance.”

More files appear on the screen; amongst them Bond catches a familiar name.

Timothy Freeman.

It isn’t long before Bond collects the rest of the names that made up Q’s exchange list.

The growing list’s existence alone ridicules Bond and belittles his more than decade’s worth of loyal service to his country. Bond can feel his pride, his passion and his identity evaporate into the humid African jungle, revealing the ugly gashes of what years of espionage did to an aging spy.

He no longer processed his eagle aim, his lightning speed or his aspiring youth. Just like a starving man searching for an oasis in the scorching desert, his beliefs disintegrate in front of him as the mirage he chases sifts through his grasping hands.

He has always managed to convince himself that his service would have been appreciated, that what he risked his life for everyday out on the field would one day bring him recognition. Without his honor and his sense of self-worth holding him together, Bond feels broken.

He feels lost like an old man standing at the cross-road of a different continent.

_Wounded and vulnerable_.

 

 

\----------

 

 

As it turned out, both men were quite content on ending the conversation that afternoon as it was. Silva never brought up the subject again and Bond went on to pretend it never happened.

It appeared that Silva had finished whatever job he was working on, and temporarily moved into the refugee camp Bond was recovering at. The surgery itself proved to be quite successful with Bond out of intensive care a week after the transplant. His damaged right kidney was removed and replaced with a sufficiently healthy one, while his left suffered a moderate amount of stress, but was declared functional enough to continue remain inside him as a backup if a rejection episode was to occur.

When it came to Silva Bond had mixed feelings towards the man.

Though Bond could not nearly be expressive enough to say it out loud, he was thankful to some degree for the treatment he received at the camp. His superiors, subordinates, and even some life-long friends alike would not have gone as far as Silva to save his life.

However that does not mean Bond has forgiven everything the ex-00 has done. Despite the fact that he now deem Silva’s revenge to be logical and even justified to some degree, he couldn’t bring himself to forget the image of his former head of command bleeding to dead in his own arms.

Therefore Bond decides to observe the man, temporarily from afar, before he could make his next move. He makes no protests when they transfer him from the run-down medical shack into a more luxurious villa within fifteen minutes’ drive to the central.

From the information he has subtly gathered so far, the owner of the district apparently knew Silva, or owed him big enough of a favour to allow Silva permanent stay within his protection.

Due to his now awkward status, Bond couldn’t be sure if he would still receive a friendly welcome upon his return to London. So the only intelligent thing to do would be to stay inside the camp until he fully recovers, and then make a break for it when they are least expecting.

Silva now drives him to the doctors only twice a week, as all they had to do was run blood tests to make sure he has been taking the transplant with no ill effects. Bond is beginning to rebuild the muscles he lost during his capture; he could feel his strength returning to him alongside his agility.

On exceptionally fine days he’ll even venture into town himself for his daily jog. He had no money or documents to prove his identity, but luckily the camp didn't bicker over minute details. He was still able to obtain some cash in rigged gambling sessions which he blew solely on drinks in the local bar.

To Bond’s surprise, none of Silva’s henchmen did as much as even tail him when he left the premise, no questions were asked regarding his whereabouts upon his return either. Silva simply commented on his delayed recovery once after he spent the night out drowning himself in alcohol. Aside from that he was giving complete freedom, to stay, to leave, to do _anything_ he wishes.

The district’s boarder only had only a thin layer of electrical fencing to separate Bond from the outside world. If he really wants to, he could take it down in a matter of seconds.

Except he doesn't, Bond didn't know what he was waiting for.

Sooner or later he would need to go back, but that didn't seem urgent to him right now. The M whose general wellbeing he actually cared for was long gone; and Bond certainly wasn't going continue working for the organisation he now feels disconnected towards.

Contrary to the popular beliefs of fellow operatives, Bond had standards when it comes to risking his life. Vaguely defined episodes of patriotic heroism aside, he provided MI6 with unquestionable loyalty on the single condition that they return the favour with acknowledgement and trust.

Bond does not deal with betrayal very well.

The villa which Silva took over is spacious enough for Bond to sometimes forget the presence of others. His own footsteps echoed inside the empty hallways which made Bond long for human interaction subconsciously. Silva didn't assign anyone to his surveillance; aside from the regular hospital trips, the few meetings they shared composed entirely of chance encounters.

As it turns out Silva is quite fond of being out in the sun, Bond speculates that the habit developed from his caliginous environments during captivity.

Whilst amid fine mornings he would often bring his laptop to work in the garden. He looked a bit silly with the overblown signal receiving device beside him, but he ignored the odd looks which Bond gave him as he continues to sip on his bitter cup of long black coffee.

He stayed in shape in the personal gym located directly behind the swimming pool, Silva made sure to let Bond know that he was welcome to join him; however Bond didn't feel the need to confine himself in a single room when he had the whole jungle to work with.

Bond was not used to seeing Silva like this, the man with the brunet locks that reminded Bond so much of the agent he used to be.

It wore down his defences, slowly chipped away the wall Bond built around himself.

A month after Bond’s escape, Bond sees Silva having a barbeque by himself in the garden. Silva notices him, and then offers him a skewer.

Bond takes it.

It tasted awful with too much salt, but Bond ate it anyway.

He was beginning to think that staying might not have been such a bad idea.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which drugs and political debate is mentioned, but only briefly.

It wasn’t long before he and Silva started drinking together.

The liquor was definitely helpful when it came to starting a conversation. Silva told Bond what it was like working in the 80s, some of the more outrageous stories even got Bond laughing. In exchange Bond commented on life as a spy in the new millennium. Both men came to the conclusion that working was much more fun back in the days.

Silva no longer needed to put on a show for Bond in an expensive suit, and Bond was no longer concerned in giving away too much information. This only lead onto more conversation and more drinks as Bond slowly discovers another side to the brunet previously unknown to him.

They started having episodes of wrestling challenges together. At first some of the other guards joined, but after a few sessions it came down to just them on a padded ring in the gym.

It was nothing too serious, with the worst injury suffered being Bond’s bruised ribs. Both men enjoyed the adrenalin rush that practicing with a professional gave them.

It bonded them in the most peculiar way.

At some point Silva started addressing him by his given name, Bond didn't return the favour, as there was still a lump in him chest that prevented him from growing too fond of the brunet. But he didn't correct Silva either, which the ex-00 agent took as a subtle sign of progress.

Bond was now comfortable with coming down to visit Silva in the garden. He would watch Silva on his laptop, make sure he wasn’t up to something too serious before settling down to dismantle then re-assemble Silva’s gun.

If the practice made too much noise Silva didn’t comment on it.

For Bond time flew past like it never did before and to his surprise, one day when they show up for the doctor’s medical examination he is told that he no longer needs to go back.

 _I guess this is where it ends_ , Bond thinks to himself.

He would have to face this mess sooner or later.

Bond is yet to make up his mind on whether or not he wishes to believe Silva’s information. He already knows that they are valid; he just needs to believe them.

Unfortunately, despite all of Silva’s efforts to keep him alive, the only way that he could possibly move on would probably get him killed.

As he takes one last stroll around the villa he has spent a month getting used to, Bond returns to his room for the last time with a blank expression in place. He finds Silva standing there with a bottle of good scotch and a satchel, waiting for him.

“Let’s go for a drive.” The brunet states casually before being the first to exit the room.

Bond hesitates on whether or not to follow; he looks outside of his bedroom window to see Silva already climbing into a four-wheel drive. Bond speculates that with MI6 no longer concerned about his general wellbeing there really wasn't anything left for Silva to use him against. Therefore he quickly catches up to the vehicle before joining the brunet in the front passenger seat.

Silva drives in silence as they speed down a route unfamiliar to Bond. They were advancing in the direction opposite to the camp centre. Gradually fields of lush plantation begin to replace the barren wastelands and abandoned temporary housing, out of the tinted glass Bond could make out the rough shape of the crop’s serrate leaflets.

He rolls down the window which enables a distinctive odour to fill the four-wheel drive; Bond didn't need to wait until they reach their destination to know what was ahead of them.

As Silva eventually pulls up against a weatherworn triple storey building, Bond can no longer see any other structures within eyesight. A group of guards salute towards them upon their arrival, and then grant them access to what Bond could only assume is a surveillance tower.

The battered edifice has a flight of stairs which Bond occupies with great caution. The wooden planks squeak a strained sound underneath the combined burden of two grown men, each weighing easily above 160 pounds.

Upon entry to their destination on the third floor, Silva dumps the satchel on a table before gesturing Bond to join him on the balcony. Being on the third storey gave Bond a superior view to the immediate landscape surrounding him. Both men made themselves comfortable on the rusty outdoor furnishing set before Silva spoke, regarding the large fields of greenery they now overlook.

“You know what that is?”

Bond is reluctant to answer; the brunet man pours them both two fingers of scotch.

“They are cannabis plants.” Silva said taking a sip of his drink.

“For the majority of people around the world the substance resembles nothing more than pure menace, and the people who grow it for non-medical purposes are all merciless delinquents who strive for nothing else but to fill their pockets with blood-stained cash.

“Amusingly that was also what I started off believing in. I remember one summer, around now, decades back when I was still young and ignorant; I was on a mission to raid a production plant not far from here. We were very successful, the entire mission carried out in less than an hour due to thorough planning beforehand. I stood there before the wretched plant, watching it burn with an odd sense of satisfaction in my chest. Then I saw a woman, whose face struck horror as she dived into the raging fire to salvage as much as she possibly could of their produce for the season.

“Naturally, I stopped her. She screamed and kicked and spat in my face before I allowed her to go back into the fire. Luckily, I knew a bit of their native tongue, she called me a ‘hope crushing demon’.

“She didn’t make it out the second time.”

Both men are silent as they watch the people watering the cannabis plantation, summer sun blistering above their heads. The entire camp is on strict water regulations, but they poured what was liquid gold for them down into the soil with determined concentration and precision. 

“Their government has abandoned them, James, left them to salvage for their own in this ruin. They could not afford food, clean water, shelter, basic medical care… With little to no education they are at a complete loss, for them the plantation is all they have. Every season they would trade their harvest for living essentials which the drug lords ship out to them. They were offered a place to stay, to work, even protection from neighboring bandit tribes. The woman and children that would have otherwise perished out in the open had the potential to thrive and mature here.

“They are not like us, James. Because despite the organization being the only thing we have, leaving MI6 will not be the end for us. We had contacts, offshore bank accounts built up over the years, skills that could get us almost anything we wanted. All we had to do was disappear. But for them things are not so fortunate. They have no knowledge of the outside world, a world beyond this.”

Bond carefully contemplates the information presented to him.

“Given a chance to do it over, would you have…” Bond lets his question trail off.

Silva’s eyes are fixed on the people working in the fields. They shine with a bitterness Bond can’t hope to fathom.

“No. I would have done the exact same thing, only with more determination. I would have even shot the woman going back in to stop her from retrieving any of the drugs.”

Bond’s eyebrows rise in confusion. That was not the answer he was expecting.

“I’m sure you are aware of the depth this trade is capable of going. Cannabis plants can be used to produce fabric, their seeds could be used as food, there are also medical values to the dried produce, not to mention the political and ethnical struggles regarding recreational use.

“ _People like us must look out for our own._ There is not enough time, and certainly not enough energy in us to stop all the immorality in this world. Therefore we must prioritize.

“If burning down a single plantation meant that it severed the funding chain of a terrorist organisation threatening mainland security, then the operation will be carried out no matter how much these poorer, more rural areas depended on it to survive.

“See them?” Silva gestures towards the teams of men and women working in between the crops.

“They are all collateral damage, unintended long-term casualties. MI6 is well informed of their presence, yet no plans were made to ensure their survival in the aftermath.

“What I am trying to tell you, James, is that _the greater good comes at a prize_. Organizations like MI6 are still in existence today because of their caution. All it takes is for one of us. **_One_** , to reveal their secrets and decades of preparation will be worthless in the blink of an eye.

“I have always wondered about what happened to me. Did she know? Did she have any idea that I was set up? I came to my conclusion in the isolation cell at MI6, when she stood before me, eyeing her former favorite 00 like an unfamiliar terrorist. It did not matter for her. I was once her favored but given the absolute need she would not hesitate to barrage me into the depth of hell. We exist for the sole and **_only_** purpose of international security. ”

Bond lowers his eyes, the events of that fateful day on the moving train once again occupying his vision. Through huffed noises and spinning colors he hears a voice that would later decide his destiny.

_“Take the bloody shot.”_

That single bullet took with it his once proud physique of an immaculate agent. He had put off returning to MI6 for months, beating around the bush. He whored himself out, drank cheap wine and got high on unknown compounds of drugs, anything to forget his identity back at London.

Deep down, he felt betrayed.

“You know I would have to go back, just like you did for her.” Bond eventually says. He swirls his drink in his glass but makes no attempt to drink it.

Silva laughs, it was an evil little laughter, but somehow Bond has never seen more genuine amusement.

“I’m assuming that’s what the satchel was for, considering it didn’t look like my lunch.” Bond gestures to the item that now occupies the table inside.

Silva rises from his seat on the balcony to make his way inside, head shaking along the way:

“Oh James, I attempted to persuade you, I truly did.”

“That was a pathetic attempt. You could have gone with the cliché invitation again, the episode we had on your island where you offered me the money, the power and the woman. With my current status I might have just took it.” Bond follows, smirk evident on his face.

“I remember offering no such thing, especially the woman. However, if you were suggesting _that_ little episode…” Tone suddenly flirtatious, Silva stops dead in his tracks and turns abruptly to fondle Bond’s shirt. “I suppose we could delay your departure _just a little_ … Hum?”

He gives a suggestive little wink.

Bond knows that he should probably feel disturbed as he could sense the subtle seriousness in the man, but for some reason, with Silva out of his extravagantly tailored suit, and platinum blond hair replaced with light brunet, Bond just couldn’t find it in him to take Silva seriously.

So instead of shamelessly flirting back with some sort of witty remark, Bond simply laughs.

It starts as a small chuckle but soon grows into a blatant outburst, bringing tears to Bond’s eyes. He gently pushes past the man now wearing a puzzled expression to investigate the contents of the satchel, Silva too confused to even attempt to stop him.

Bond unzips the satchel to reveal a thick stack of British and Congolese currency, documents to forge a fake identity, a gun, and a little plain cardboard box which upon closer inspection turns out to be an irregularly assembled hair dye-kit.

“It appears that the declining economy has hit the terrorism industry hard. Former master-mind behind the most deadly breach of British national security since the establishment of MI6, now reduced to a skimpy home dye job.”

Silva shoots Bond a dirty look which indicates that he doesn’t appreciate his sass. He removes the kit from the satchel and offers it to Bond.

“For the lack of an adequate salon in the outskirts of Kinshasa, there comes a time where one must improvise.”

Bond takes it.

“I don’t remember offering to help.” Bond says as they make their way over to the balcony again. The turning sun has already travelled around the building, leaving the balcony in a cooling shade but still light enough for the job to be carried out.

Bond opens the kit to pull out a plastic drape; he carefully arranges it around Silva before proceeding to put on the included gloves. Silva, being the bastard that he is, manages to find a tablet left behind by his associates and began replying to his e-mails with it, leaving Bond to attend to the job at hand.

Bond raises an eyebrow. The personalised kit has no instructions whatsoever because it didn't come from a licensed factory. It also contains at least three different types of unlabelled substances.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Bond asks.

“Just mix everything together then coat my hair with it.” Silva replies without even looking up.

With precision and caution Bond did as he was told in such a timid manner that makes the procedure look like he is disarming a bomb. He makes sure it’s mixed together evenly before slowly coating his gloves with the substance to apply it to the brunet locks.

While completely ignoring the applicator brush on the tip of the developer crème bottle he destroyed moments ago, Bond finds it awkward that he has to simultaneously juggle the dye tub between his hands and separate Silva’s hair into strands.

“Hold this for me, will you?” Bond shoves the tub in front of the sitting man’s face.

“Put it on the table.” Silva again replies too commandingly for Bond’s preference as he continues to make absolutely no effort to help.

Annoyed, Bond yanks on the messy locks in his hand.

“Ouch, ouch, **_ouch_** _!_ _James! Unnecessary hostility_!” Silva whines in over exaggeration; however he does take the tub out of Bond’s hand this time, freeing it to do a much better job.

Comfortable silence falls upon them. The two ex-00 agents that would have shot each other on sight only five months ago now occupy a rusty, worn-out balcony together in the middle of a marijuana production camp. The sweltering African summer heat is alleviated by a refreshing breeze which dries the sweat on both men’s backs.

The one standing was afraid to return home. The one sitting no longer had a home to call his own. But for all that matters now, they are united by circumstance.

Bond looks down on the lightening locks that entwine with his fingers as he attempts to wiggle his hand free, a strange feeling of contentment inside his heart.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly my first ever detailed sex scene. All the adult content warnings boils down to this chapter. Just in case you haven't caught the drift already: this is GAY SEX.

Silva and Bond are like the opposite sides of the same coin, standing back-to-back with no idea of each other’s presence until they realize their true identity as the props they were. However different they may appear physically, they shared the same material, the same value and the same purpose.

Bond has always suspected that Silva came out of his imprisonment with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. A man couldn’t have possibly made it through what Silva has gone through without being inevitably flawed in some way. Or it could have been the simple fact that Silva got his dying wish and is no longer concerned with what happens to the rest of the world.

Either way, savage psychopath or misbehaving agent throwing a tantrum, contrary beliefs and morals aside, Bond couldn’t bring himself to fear his own reflection in the mirror.

However, even with that said, it still puts him at unease as the now-blond man strides into the room.

Silva looks Bond in the eye and says nothing; he dumps a bag of clothing in front of Bond gesturing for him to get changed. Blond hair still dripping water from the recent shower, Silva disappears into the doorway, taking his tablet with him.

Bond takes a look into the clothing bag and immediately raises an eyebrow; it was a well-tailored Tom Ford three-piece suit.

Satisfied with his attire, Bond takes the bag into the bathroom before proceeding to shave his face. The small room had poor ventilation due to being pushed against a windowless corner; steam left behind by Silva’s recent shower clouds the shattered mirror leaving Bond’s features distorted.

As he slowly puts on his suit in front of the broken mirror Bond can feel his identity returning to him. Working in suits was sure tediously uncomfortable, but the lack of comfort constrained him in a way and often stopped him from losing himself in the never-ending battle.

It reminded him that he was expected to be gallant, gentlemanly and at times confined because he not only represented himself, but the whole British Empire behind him.  

 _Amazing how time and circumstances change_ , Bond smiles to himself. The freshly shaven man in the mirror smiles back at him. Confident, intelligent and absolutely dashing he represented the best of what the top-ranking agents of MI6 had to offer.

007, reporting for duty one last time.

As he walks out of his quarters with the same piercing gaze that once identified him as an agent, he hears the sound of a helicopter closing in. In the distance a black AW101 comes roaring by as a man standing in the middle of the field signals for its landing.

Just as Bond exits the watch tower, he sees Silva dressed impeccably in a black suit. He steps into the bellowing winds generated by the rotors with alluring fortitude. His shirt gave off a royal purple sheen whilst still remaining black, providing a background for the plain silk tie. Blond hair slicked back the in the most gentlemanly fashion, he looked like an elegant panther, a magnificent sight to behold but at the same time impossibly deadly. 

Bond whistles, but it’s lost in the thunderous sound of the blades.

Silva motions for Bond to join him on their transport. The large cargo bag on his shoulder distinguished him from an affluent elite socializing in the ballroom into a lethal agent on the outset of a mission.

Without hesitation, Bond marched forward in the same manner as a feeling of _déjà vu erupts in his chest. Six months ago, Skyfall estate, the same man and the same model of aircraft, only things are much different now._

_Both men board the chopper and belt themselves in as it begins to lift from the ground. Bond glances out a nearby window for one last look at the camp. He feels only mild reluctance as his home of the past month shrinks from view. Like many places he became familiar with amid other missions, he doubts that he would have the opportunity to return._

_People working in the lush greenery raised their heads as they heard the blaring mechanical transport progress overhead. With a practically non-existent government to protect them and relentless drug trafficking officers aiming to maul them down with every opportunity, Bond doesn’t know who will last longer, him or this plantation._

_He has always known that familiarity would be a luxury he cannot afford in his life. But given the chance, after everything settles, maybe he will finally get an opportunity to review his experiences._

_Visit places he has been before, catch up with some old friends as the years of built-up tension gradually wear alongside his skills. Steadily grow old as the mysterious stranger living in solitary peace amongst a small village, with none of the other inhabitants knowing his past._

_Bond looks out the tiny chopper window as the camp slowly disappears into nothingness._

_One can only dream._

 

 

_\----------_

 

 

The ride towards London was short, over in the blink of an eye for Bond. He spent the majority of the time spacing out while Silva polished his guns and worked on his laptop. Upon arrival at their destination they were dropped off on a grass field in the rural outskirts, the rest of the journey was made in a waiting SUV until they reached the outer city of London.

Silva parks the SUV in the underground parking lot of a high-rise apartment complex. Both men carry the heavy cargo bags with them out of the SUV and into the building. The receptionist makes no note of the suspicious luggage and hands Silva a room key without saying a word.

The apartment is located on the 18th floor of the complex overlooking the inner city of London. It is a spacious two bedroom suite with what Bond could only assume used to be a connecting entertainment area as well as a lounge and dining hall.

It is now occupied with a system of modular metal benches housing a network of flashing modems. The overwhelming presence of professionally set up technology provides a sharp contrast against its antique backdrop of floral wallpaper. A thick bundle of chords stretches across the space, feeding electricity to the mechanical monster like living veins.

As Silva proceeds to hook up his laptop to the rest of the system, Bond simply positions himself on top of the nearest empty surface he could find. From there he observes his senior at work as sunset stained the streets of London red, foreshadowing the blood that is to come.

The gentle sound of glassware coming into contact with the surface beside him wakes Bond from his wandering state. Silva now stands next to him with a bottle of scotch in hand. He pours them both a drink then proceeds to join Bond on the table.

“Let’s propose a toast.”

“What’s there to celebrate?” Bond asks wearily.

Silva lowers his head as if in serious search for an explanation, he blinks and then focuses on the coral sunset before them. The floor-to-ceiling window amplifies the magnificent visual impact of the red and orange lights. Tricked by the lively colours for a brief moment, the man beside Bond suddenly appears to be young again.

His cheeks flushed with a healthy rosy sheen, the purple dress shirt he wore appears to be almost black underneath the orange filter of lights. His hair darkens into a familiar shade of brunet, while the smirk typically depicting a well-established agent embeds itself firmly onto the man’s face.

The young brunet flashes a dashing smile at Bond. He reveals brilliant white teeth, which snaps Bond out of his temporary state of illusion. Somewhere behind those flawless artificial dentures lay a messy array of acid worn teeth. He looks at the man’s face again, this time he could clearly manage to see the pasty completion hidden behind the colourful disguise.

 “Do you know how I managed to escape captivity alive?” Silva doesn't seem to notice Bond’s episode, as he is in deep thoughts of his own.

Bond swirls the drink in his glass. In moments like this he has learnt to keep his silence.

“I believe that I have already enlightened you on that matter.” Silva laughs while he shakes his head, showing disapproval towards himself.

“I had several speeches planed out before our little meeting in isolation. And as unlikely as it seems, none of which included my outburst.” He pauses for a moment, studying the drink in his hand.

“During my endless hours in the torture room I had no hope, no dignity, not even respect for myself left. But I did have one saviour; I had something left to be accomplished. And _that_ , James, is more powerful than anything else you can think of.”

Silva raises his scotch glass into the air: “So let’s propose a toast to purpose?”

The blond’s drink is met in mid-air with another identical glass, Bond smiles into his scotch as he empties the glass of its contents.

_To purpose indeed._

 

 

 

 

\----------

 

 

The problem with two suspected alcoholics having a drink together is that one drink quickly leads to another, then three, then four… And by the time Bond turns to reach for the bottle after a good hour has passed, none of the glassware’s original content was left to occupy the delicate work of art.

The 00 agent feels a bit drowsy; however he remains unfazed as he studies the blond next to him. Silva straightens out the non-existent crease on his dress shirt in attempt to mask his insobriety, pale completion just a little red from the ample amount of alcohol he has previously consumed.

The night is still young, and Bond, after having a few drinks to boost his ego, remarks in confidence:

“You know, we never got to truly settle who ends up on top.”

Silva raises a single eyebrow at the unexpected statement. He sets down his own empty glass, all the while eyeing Bond with a too-wide grin. His left hand gently taps on the metallic surface, rhythm slow and soothing to anyone but the 00 agent beside him.

Bond gives away absolutely nothing as he returns the stare while holding his stance. Behind him he had both of his palms pressed firmly against the countertop. For a moment the air was completely still inside the joint space; they knew each other too well to have already guessed what is ahead of them.

Suddenly both men threw themselves away from each other, landing on all four limbs as they began pacing the room in a circular motion. Silva’s steps are a little tangled with each other, while Bond could feel his reflexes slowing down significantly due to the alcohol inside his system. But a little drunkenness was not going to prompt neither man from backing out of a challenge.

Bond quickly discards his tie after he takes off his jacket, not daring to take his eye off the blond for a single second. Silva mirrors Bond’s movements as he makes his own fair share of contribution to the growing mess on the floor. Both men left behind clothing, electronics, weaponry, or anything of the sort that could be used against them in close range combat.

Satisfied that he is now free of all unnecessary items, Bond is the first to make a move. He throws his fist directly into the blond’s face while his other hand steadies himself from the rapid movement.

Silva dodges the speedy punch with difficulty, he grab Bond’s extended arm in attempt to throw him over, but instead of carrying out the action in a clean movement Bond manages to tangle himself together with the blond in a messy knot of limbs.

Both men fell to the floor with a thunderous crash, they wrestle around violently on the carpet, sending dust particles shooting into the air.

Silva, as previously observed by Bond, had a noticeably higher tolerant to drugs than anyone else he had the pleasure of meeting. That, however, did not include alcohol.

Bond didn’t think _anyone_ could compete with his resistance when it comes to alcohol.

With years of heavy drinking under his belt, bond briefly gets the upper hand by pinning the blond beneath him; out of the corner of his eye he catches the sheen of a familiar piece of fabric. Without hesitation Bond grabs it then uses it to tie together the blond’s wrist.

Silva jerks fiercely as he attempts to escape his constraints; he uses his knee to repeatedly collide with Bond’s back but the 00 agent remains triumphantly on top.

Bond smirks while he continues to pin the blond man down, thoroughly enjoying the authority at hand. He laughs out loud when Silva lets out a frustrated grunt, Bond can’t hope to remember the last time he has been this satisfied with winning a duel.

However the smile on his lips froze soon after he realises a certain part of his anatomy also becoming excited after the adrenalin rush.

Come to think of it, taking out his extra stamina in a raunchy tangle of flesh with some naked stranger never evolved into an option for him this time round. It wasn’t that he needed to tip-toe around the issue due to his recovering injury as he had a few keen targets within the camp, all curvaceous African ladies that were truly a sight to behold.

He simply… had better things to occupy his time with.

Bond doesn’t recall ever having spent this much time with another man before. He’s never really thought about it until now, just how close him and Silva are starting to become.

When they were still at the camp it simply seemed natural for them to occupy each other’s company, after all they made the effort to get to know each other.

It started as a simple exchange of words, which lead them towards drinking and other masculine activities. When Bond suggested that they go strike deals with the guards to exchange properly manufactured guns with their home-made mechanics, Silva didn’t hesitate to offer his supplies.

Some days Silva would get too lazy to step foot into the market, which forced Bond to go buy them clothes, because neither man did their own washing and they needed to change one way or another.

As time progressed they even became comfortable with each other enough to go on hunting trips outside the boarder. The ending results were usually horrid tasting skewers but no complaints were made when they had both tasted far worse.

Bond is called back from his reflection to attend to the situation at hand with an intentional cough.

Still beneath him laid a thoroughly disheveled Silva whom had ceased struggling in order to survey Bond with fascination. He tilts his head back in a tempting angle to reveal an elegant length of neck, in the process arching his back to lean into Bond’s erection.

“Like what you see, **_James_**?”

Bond arches an eyebrow; he lowers his weight to rub against Silva’s abdomen. Silva lets out a moan.

Neither man speaks for a moment. Bond speculates that this is probably a terrible idea; in fact, his worst idea to date. But just like many other terrible ideas he embraced throughout his life, he irresponsibly decides that it’s now or never.

He leans into the man beneath him with a crushing kiss, Silva responds eagerly with teeth. Bond reacts by forcing open the rest of Silva’s shirt and peeling it away until the costly material becomes nothing but a clutter of fabric to reinforce the restraints on Silva’s wrist.

Bond parts from the kiss wiping blood from his swollen lip to admire his handiwork. He makes no attempt to free Silva from the makeshift hand-cuff.

 

He descends upon Silva’s chest, gradually making his way down it with wet kisses tinted with blood. Silva, having somehow managed to rid himself of his shoe and sock circled a naked foot around Bond’s calf; the cold skin provided a startling sensation against Bond’s feverish own.

 

Bond bites down hard on Silva’s neck at the teasing attempt, causing a loud grunt of pain to escape the blond man’s mouth. Bond quickly frees himself from his own clothing, uncaring where they land before turning to remove Silva’s belt buckle.

“Where is it?” Bond asks as he pulls down Silva’s trousers and underwear until they are just below his knee.

Silva laughs devilishly: “Why don’t you take a wild guess, James. There are only a few locations it could possibly be.”

Bond considers the hallway leading towards the bedroom. Immediately dismissing it as too much effort, he lifts the blond man onto his feet, backing him onto an empty work bench. Bond lowers himself onto Silva, pressing him flush against the cold metal surface before he forces two fingers into Silva’s mouth.

“Mmph….” Silva lets out a small noise of arousal which tickles Bond places it shouldn’t.

Bond grinds his hips against the man in aggravation. He pulls out the digits now slippery with saliva, and makes his way down below Silva’s own rock hard erection nested within a messy tangle of brunet curls, absently brushing against it during the process.

Silva stares at the man above him with a glare threatening death if he doesn’t get a move on. Bond meets Silva’s scowl as his fingers press against the tight ring of muscle.

Slowly he slips his fingers inside, never taking his eye off the blond to carefully observe his reaction. Silva appears to be uncomfortable at first, but he allowed Bond to continue stretching him in a scissoring motion.

And that’s when Bond feels the intersecting lines indented into an otherwise smooth wall.

On the surface Silva seems as casual and flirtatious as ever, but Bond feels his body tense as he temporarily stops his motions in order to trace along the bumps lining the tight passage.

Immediately realizing his actions to be a form of disrespectful emphasis on what must have been a sickening experience for the blond, Bond briefly casts Silva an apologetic glance before he continues on with his preparation.

Not all organization’s treated its captives as kindly as MI6.

In the weak moonlight filtering through the apartment’s sheer curtains Bond could make out the shapes of at least a dozen scars on Silva’s body. They spread across his skin like embedded centipedes, silent reminders of all that he has endured for MI6, _for her_.

It’s easy to see how his unwavering faith in both evaporated into nothing.

As Bond slowly comes to an understanding of Silva’s consequential obsession for closure, Silva, unsatisfied with Bond’s lack of progress moans impatiently before jolting him in the back with his knee. He nearly manages to successfully throw Bond off the table before Bond’s expeditious reflects repositions himself on top of Silva.

Raising an eyebrow at the blond beneath him, Bond decides that it’s indeed time to get a move on.

The third finger which he inserted into the man moments ago can now also be moved with ease; Bond takes away his other hand previously parting Silva’s thighs so he could tease the head of Silva’s length in a circular motion.

“Final warning.” Bond mumbles as he discards the last of his clothing.

As much as Bond would never admit out loud he still needs the man for his re-visit to MI6, it would cutback his survival chances significantly if Silva was to miss out.

“Third drawer from the right.” Between attempts made to rub himself against Bond’s body and grunts of impatience Silva spits out the location of the desired product.

Bond breaths heavily as he dislocates the drawer before dumping its entire contents onto the bench top. Beneath the papers and writing instruments he discovers a box of condoms and a small tube of lube. Bond rips open a packet with his mouth to roll it on to his throbbing erection; he then gives the miniature tube a hard squeeze, landing the watery substance everywhere as the majority of the liquid failed to cling onto the slippery rubber.

The blond man throws his head back, granting Bond full view of his Adams apple as Bond slowly pushes himself into the tight passage of pure bliss. Both men are temporarily motionless as Bond suppresses the compelling urge to pound Silva repeatedly against the metal bench top, allowing him some time to adjust to the intrusion.

Silva is experienced enough to quickly calm himself before relaxing against the cool surface. Bond can feel him loosen up, and takes it as a sign to slowly withdraw himself until only the head of his cock is still submerged.

He makes direct eye contact with the man beneath him, being the gentleman that he is, he certainly did not wish to inflict an unenjoyably experience upon his partner.

Silva replies with a hard thrust of his hips, which suggests to Bond that he was more than ready.

Bond made shallow thrusts at first, and then picked up his speed as he feels the resistance weaken against his repeated movements. He explores with his angles of penetration, each attempt aiming at a different location until a certain spot gets a response out of the blond.

“ _Ah… Uurgh_ …”

Silva moans as Bond’s erection brushes against his prostate, sending a wave of pleasure down his spine. Hands still bound together by the remains of his tuxedo, he wraps his legs around Bond’s waist as he shivers from the delightful sensation.

Bond smiles inwardly to himself at the newfound discovery; he’ll be dammed if he doesn’t use this to his complete advantage.

He memorized the spot which he now repeatedly thrusts against with brutal force and deadly accuracy. The blond man arches his back in enjoyment as he pushes their bodies together impossibly closer, unintelligent gibberish escaping his mouth.

“ _Oh…Arugh…Yes……. James…!”_ Silva moans as he grinds his hips to mirror Bond’s movement.

Bond lets out pleasured grunts of his own; out of the corner of his eye Silva’s network of expensive equipment flashed a range of bright colors as they sit elegantly on their respective benches.

Suddenly aware of his surroundings, Bond is enlightened by a devious idea.

He tugs Silva by the waist to pull him up into a sitting position, and then proceeds to lift Silva by the buttocks, erection still firmly embedded as he makes his way over to the array of costly mechanics.

He places Silva so he sits on top of a table just shy of touching his creations. Bond then forcefully constrains Silva’s arms in front of his chest so he cannot support himself against the table.

Silva, concerned about leaning back and crushing the equipment behind him, uses his lower thigh muscles to regain his balance, in the process contracting around Bond even more seamlessly than before.

Bond lets out a content sigh before he resumes thrusting into the man now bracing his legs against the bench top, body stiff in hope of gaining extra support against the barbaric force.

Bond smirks as he looks straight into the struggling man’s eyes; he was definitely not going to let him off that easily, it would ruin all the fun.

With one hand still firmly holding the blond’s arms in place, his other sneaks down between them until it finds the ex-00 agent’s cock which has been painfully ignored up until now.

Bond wets his hand at the tip of the organ with the man’s pre-cum, and then starts to move up and down the length until Silva frustratingly swears out in Spanish.

“ _Maldito…pinchazo! I’m… Arugh…!”_

Bond lets out a trailing sound of laughter in successful revenge for the blond’s previous inhospitable act of tying him to a chair. _Good things certainly come to those who wait._

Just as Bond suspects Silva to be near the edge, he closes his grip at the base of the man’s erection, forbidding the blond from coming before him. Silva can feel his legs giving out, body already starting to shake from the rapidly building sensation of being repeatedly penetrated.

As a last resort Bond pushes the technologies occupying the table’s surface behind Silva to a corner of the bench top, uncaring while some of them are forced over the edge to crash to the floor.

He cannot have the blond landing on them when he finally loses control. 

As if sensing it is now safe to relax again, Silva falls backwards as his pale body turns a shade of feverish pink from the heated session. Bond props Silva’s legs onto his shoulders which enables him to thrust even deeper into the man.

Just as Bond feels himself reaching his peak, he lets go of Silva’s cock to finally allow him release. Bond puts in a few more shallow thrusts, while Silva rides out his orgasm.

Back arched, pupils dilated and voice raspy from the continuous cries of pleasure, Silva opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a snippet of the plot is revealed.

Bond woke to the coolness of an empty bed.

He slips out from beneath the goosedown quilt, and sits on the edge of the mattress, giving himself a minute to collect his thoughts.

Still naked from his earlier exchange, Bond opens the dresser to find a pair of white boxer shorts; he fits into them perfectly.

Silva is nowhere to be seen.

The clock on the nightstand reads 2:45 am; he had been asleep for almost five hours.

A faint smidge of light creeps through the gap beneath the closed bedroom door; Bond silently pulls it open as he advances towards the direction of the light source.

His feet made no sound as he carefully places each step onto the lush Victorian carpet, as agile and nimble as an exploring jungle feline amongst unfamiliar surroundings.

He hears the distant beeping of machinery ahead. As he rounds the corner leading him to the joint space holding the mechanical network, the brunet agent spots his prey.

Silva, in an equal state of undress is bent over a pile of destroyed technology. He searches through the cluttered mess, salvaging as much as he can from the ruin with precision and care. Despite his efforts, the sorted collection beside him is still awfully small in contrast.

Bond repositions himself to gain a better view on what the man was doing. Silva had his back towards him, and that was when Bond saw it.

Amongst a mass of other more perceptible scars sits a fresh new mark.

Still pink from the recently grown tissue, it nests itself firmly between the man’s shoulder blades. Being ever so slightly off-centered, the blemish itself loudly declares just how close Bond had come to severing the spinal cord of the man who is now possibly his only ally.

No heating was apparent in the luxurious apartment, even though the air conditioning outlet planted into the ceiling above Silva would beg to differ. Underneath the modular formation of down lights Bond could make out a thin layer of goose bumps present on the blond’s skin.

Being almost solely responsible for the damage inflicted to the equipment which will ensure his own survival in the events to come, Bond was indulging in the luxury of rest while the man who had no obligations to help him worked tirelessly on repairing the malfunctioning network.

Bond has always considered Silva to be a very able individual with a clear understanding towards what he wished to achieve; during his few encounters with the man Silva has also proved himself worthy of Bond’s high regard. But as the blond hunches over the pile of broken machinery, his naked muscular form no longer seems so invulnerable.

The stab wound stretches with Silva’s movement as he reaches for a tool box beside him, absently sitting on a tender spot, the blond rubs his back while he puts on a pair of magnifying glasses to inspect a minute circuit board.

Bond still stands at the doorway; he should probably do something to alert Silva of his presence.

Instead the agent finds himself rooted to the spot, a lump developing in his throat as he watched the man ignoring his own discomforts to continue focus on the task at hand.

The scene in front of him brushed against a certain spot Bond did not know he still had. Like the shapeless droplets of water falling from the sky during a gentle summer rain, the imagery itself had no physical power, yet it managed to seep through impenetrable barricades of stone and steel, descending with gravity until it reached the most vulnerable parts of Bond’s apathetic soul.

Bond slowly retreats along the route he came from. Once back inside the safety of the bedroom he discovers the lump inside his chest to only grow bigger instead of disintegrating.

Without giving it much thought Bond strips the bed of its quilt and cushion. He then makes his way back towards the living space, turning on the air conditioning during the process as he found a remote for it in the hallway.

The blond cyber-terrorist snaps around as agent 007 of MI6 dumps a feathery duvet on top of him. Silva eyes Bond questioningly while the man shoves a cushion underneath him. He joins the blond on the floor before wrapping them both inside the quilt.

“I couldn’t find any clothes.” Feeling temperature slowly returning to the body beside him, Bond attempts to explain his actions as he avoids all eye contact.

Silva raises an eyebrow.

Bond, ignoring the blond’s conspicuous curiosity, gestures towards the broken heap of mechanics in front of them.

“I don't suppose… I can help?”

Silva removes his magnifying glasses and hands Bond the circuit board he has been examining.

“There are three others just like this one inside the broken case. If they seem to be in one piece, find them and give them to me. Don't try to do anything else - you will break them.”

Bond does as he’s told. He patiently cracks open the damaged casing bit by bit, as he hands Silva his discoveries the blond uses tweezers to carefully insert them into new homes.

The space a lone figure occupied moments ago is now filled with the presence of two. Both men work in comfortable silence as rays of yellow starts to fill the horizon.

Neither of them bothers to return to the bedroom once the tedious repair work is complete. As Bond slowly drifts into slumber once more on a surface less appropriate for such activity, he turns to look at the man already fast asleep beside him.

Pleasant heat radiates from the blond’s body underneath the covers they share. Though their bodies do not touch, the sheer alleviation of having somebody here to reduce the burden on his back moves Bond like no physical contact ever could.

Despite the nearness of the organization that bargained for his death, Bond feels a peculiar sense of security. Rarely did he go into anything more than a light snooze when he shared his resting space with someone else. However today, as Bond’s ever-attentive mind falls into a state of peaceful inactivity, he no longer registers the environment around him.

Bond simply rests, surrounded by warmth.

 

 

\----------

 

 

Agent James Bond of British secret intelligence, as acknowledged by many, was never an individual particularly fond of reminiscing on the past.

Despite many astounding memories of people and places, Bond never purchased any souvenirs; rarely did he even leave behind any means of contact should others ever wish to see him again.

With that said, Bond did occasionally come to possess a few items of importance.

He learnt his lesson the hard way last time, when all his belongings were callously shoved into a cramped warehouse. One should never depend on company standard procedure to care for their delicate inanimate objects; even during the unlikely reoccurring event of resurrection.

Hence explaining the personal storage he is now opening with his keycard.

It was one of the smallest versions of these things that were actually up for loan, approximately the size of a single office filing cabinet drawer, but really that was all Bond needed.

Standing in its lone glory in the middle of the safe was a porcelain bulldog coated with the Union Jack.

Bond carefully lifts the china figurine to reposition it into a cushioned box, just as he does so he sees the familiar face of a certain former head of command.

She stands in the doorway with her back towards the lights; her petite figure was clad in the same black dress she wore during her final hours. She had both of her hands firmly pressed against the fatal gun wound on her hip. Despite the pain her bent form implies, she held a blank expression, the blood on her trench coat was dry long before their encounter here.

Bond turns to face her; she shakes her head, showing her disapproval.

The ashen agent bites his lip. He opens his mouth to speak, perhaps to explain his actions, but words escape him.

Bond blinks, and then just like that she is gone.

 

 

\----------

 

 

_“Remember, get in, get out.”_ Silva reinforces through Bond’s earpiece as he sips on a cup of coffee in a blacked out SUV. The marker which represents the MI6 agent shines brightly on his laptop screen amongst a map of magnified metropolitan London. 

“I know what I’m doing-” Bond voices his annoyance as he turns on his standard issue company radio, officially announcing his survival as the small metallic device steadily transmits a signal to the headquarters of MI6. “I’ve been doing this long enough.”

Silva rolls his eyes in a dramatic fashion as he sighs heavily, making sure the agent on the other end could hear him. Bond ignores the exaggerated exhale of air; he has been cruising the block five streets down MI6 headquarters for roughly three minutes now in a navy blue BMW. 

So far no one has made any attempts to pull him over or even trail behind him, but both man knew that the company they were seeking was probably aware of his presence.

Just as Bond prepares to make a sarcastic remark regarding the blond’s increased groaning as of late, he hears a muffled buzz escape his tiny radio from where it sits in the cup holder.

“It looks like they decided to go with a different approach.” The 00 agent pushes the self-operating device flush against his ear until he could make out the faint sound.

“ _KKTTCHHHH ….KKTTCHHHH …doubl-…ven…_ ”

“Q?” Bond can hardly hear the man over the dominating buzzing noise, but he was sure that the voice he just caught belongs to a certain proficient quartermaster.

_“KKTTCHHHH…oh for goodness-KKTTCHHHH sake, give me a second-KKTTCHHHH…”_

Bond waits patiently as he makes another turn, still no traffic behind him.

_“At last! That's better. Bloody company radio.”_ Q’s voice now rings through the device with blaring clarity. Bond flinches at the sound before dropping the small electronic back into the cup holder.

“What do you want, Q?”

_“007, this is an emergency, you should be thanking God right now that today was my day off.  I really don't care what you think you are doing by turning this thing on, but you need to turn it off at once then find some other way to contact me.”_

Bond frowns as his concentration drifts away from the road ahead of him, Silva is silent on the other end but Bond has no doubt that he caught everything Q just said.

_“They are after you- I knew something was wrong the moment you didn't come back from your mission. Rumors are going around that somebody penetrated the safekeep room and stole an important document containing all our recent operations. You have been officially striped of your 00 status and declared an enemy of the nation. **They are accusing you of treason, 007!** ”_

Bond had known this was coming, but as Q bluntly lay out the facts in front of him it still stung like a knife to the heart. At the back of his head a bodiless voice exclaims triumphantly _See? I told you so!_

_“007?”_ Q is sounding worried at Bond’s silence. _“Please don't tell me… that it **actually** was you…?”_

Bond doesn't know how to answer; it seems that MI6 quickly caught on to the fact that he survived his ambush in Kinshasa. Now that he is also as an ex-00, he can suddenly understand what Silva must have felt like a decade back when he was left to rot in a torture room with no air.

Only then, Silva wasn't fortunate enough to be rescued.

“I did go into the safe keep room, but it’s not what you think-”

_“Jesus Christ.”_ Q draws in a sharp breath. _“I knew I shouldn't have trusted you with that information, we are all dead-”_

“Q, listen to what I am saying.” Bond cuts Q off as he briefly casts another glance in his rear-view mirror. He remembers seeing the same cars behind him now a couple of turns back.

“I was set up, Silva was set up, remember your exchange list? We were all set up. This wasn't some unfortunate accident or a calculated hostage exchange; this was months in the planning to get rid of us. MI6 needed its secrets safe and we were too much of an uncertain variable.

“I only took one file, and I am certain that you know which one I am talking about. I would never, not even until my dying day, do what they are accusing me of doing. So Q, you need to trust me.”

Bond waits for Q to make up his mind as he speeds up his BMW, the trailing vehicles behind suddenly start to flash red and blue lights. Deafening police sirens now blast through the air to reach the miniature device in the cup holder as well as Bond’s ear piece.

Q finally replies after what seems like eternity.

_“Well, I suppose it isn’t important what I believe in._ _If they ever find out that I’ve been hacking into the master database it wouldn't matter what I was looking at either.”_

_“James, I’m really starting to like this boy.”_ Silva, who has been quietly taking in the situation up until now, states his opinion. _“Put me on speaker.”_

Bond takes off his ear piece to place it into the cup holder, joining it with the little metallic radio.

_“I do believe that we have never been formally introduced.”_ Bond can just imagine the blond’s smug look as he sits in his luxurious SUV, feet propped up against the dashboard, laptop in hand, taunting his junior in the field as he sips on his now cold caffeine-laden drink.

_“Raoul Silva.”_

_“Mr. Silva, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”_ If Q was surprised he didn’t show it. _“Q of MI6; though I doubt after this particular incident I’ll still have a promising career in espionage.”_

Silva allows himself to let out a genuine trail of laughter.

_“Well the cyber-terrorism industry welcomes you with a warm embrace, boy.”_

_“Comforting to know, Mr. Silva.”_

Bond glances over his shoulder to place a rough count on the police vehicles now behind him, he has been narrowly avoiding being cornered by them up until now.

As unfortunate as it sounds, London is not like the other cities Bond grew accustomed to, the law-enforcement here is actually quite capable of eventually ‘bringing him to justice’ should he continue to wander around like a blind elephant.

“Gentlemen, if I must-”

_“Turn left.”_

_“Take a left.”_

Both technicians, the absolute best of their industry, immediately cease all small talk as professionalism takes over. They began stating a series of commands, mirroring each other in the process in order to get Bond to safety before he manages to crash and kill himself.

_“By the way, I disabled the tracker inside your radio so treat this as a walkie-talkie from now on. I still can’t believe that you drove all the way to the headquarters with this time-bomb strapped to your chest, what on earth were you trying to prove?”_ Q questions as he urges Bond to make sharp right.

“Believe me, I have been wondering the same thing.”

Truth be told, Bond himself had no idea what he was hoping for from his former employer. Maybe an apology, a hint of regret, anything; but the situation which greeted him upon his return made him feel like he was re-submerged into a bucket of icewater inside the drug traffickers’ dungeon.

_“James, you just missed a turn. Concentrate!”_ Silva’s low voice snaps Bond out of his temporary state of disorientation. Bond knows Silva is right, if he doesn't concentrate now he won’t need to worry about feeling lost in the future.

He won't **_have_** a future.

“Q, fill me in on what happened after I was gone.” Bond supposes he needs a distraction to chase this debilitating coldness out of his chest.

_“Good God, where do I start?”_ Q takes a moment to organize his thoughts.

_“Several major events occurred after your leave- and don't ask me how I know everything. First of all it was announced that the safekeep room got broken into two days after your supposed death. Up until this point no one suspected that it was you. Your name was carved onto the memorial wall for your years of excellence in the field, M even gave a speech to new recruits about the tragic loss._

_“A new 007 was elected. He’s a stubby European man possessing a dull character compared to you, the ladies were rather disappointed. Then after about six weeks the safekeep case resurfaced, and they confirmed that it was you who broke into the top-clearance sector. The crucial case files which you apparently stole were sold at some ungodly price in the black market. This got MI6 into seriously deep waters as they struggled to compensate for the loss.”_

_“Sounding familiar, James?”_ Silva questions in an unemotional tone. Bond doesn't say a word.

_“It was then officially announced that you were not dead. A level three warrant for your arrest got issued out to every single branch available to MI6. Agents are to shoot you on sight should they have no guarantee to capture you alive- which I must add, is almost a hundred percent of the time.”_

Bond suspected as much. Every day he lives is another day MI6 might be in jeopardy from opposing enemy organizations armed with information they shouldn't have.

What Q chooses to end his summary on, Bond would have never guessed.

_“Your name got struck off the wall. Congratulations on being the second agent in history to have ever survived company assassination to have their name removed. We all know who the first is.”_

Deleterious rage begins to accumulate inside Bond’s already afflicted chest.

_Was that really necessary?_ Bond thinks to himself as his stern expression slowly morphs into one of unmistakable anger. He has given them his youth, his health, his entire _life_.

_He trusted them_.

He has never expected anything in return, he kept his head down, received and carried out his orders like a good little foot soldier who knew he wouldn't live to become the commander. He never deviated from his tasks, he has shot and killed good, honorable men simply for the fact that they stood in the organization’s way.

He has lost so much, gained so little, yet they refuse to even leave him with a dignified finish.

Up until this point, Bond still had a little snippet of obedience left in him to consider surrendering himself to the organization. But as his breathing becomes heavier, that last straw of nostalgia disintegrates alongside the fading image of his former head of command.

Knuckles white from his crushing grip on the steering wheel, the coldness inside Bond’s chest grows into a fiery assembly of bawling demons.

_How dare they chisel away the only thing left to identify my years of loyal service? How dare they expect understanding from me, when all they want to do is mangle my reputation?_

_How dare they take away what is rightfully mine, after everything I have done for them?_

_“Bond what are you doing? I don't think either me or Mr. Silva told you to make a U-turn. **Take a left now, do you hear me?** ” _Q’s commands increase in volume as Bond’s vehicle continues to accelerate down an unwavering straight line.

Bond ignores all protests, he has had enough.

They are going to see what he is _really_ capable of doing.

Even if it ends up being the lasting thing he ever does.


	10. Chapter 10

Agent Bill Tanner, as M’s very own chief of staff, has been around MI6 long enough to legitimately claim that he has seen it all. Being superb in a crisis, the loyal operative has a steady aim and years of experience in the field to guide him when it comes to an unsuspected incident.

Therefore when the alarm went off to signal an outside intrusion, instead of wandering around like a headless fly, Tanner immediately scans the list of areas he has stored inside his brain to make an educated guess on where the penetration might be targeted.

Whilst trained security officers work on evacuating the building, Tanner hastily advances towards the direction of M’s office to ensure his safety.

He will not attend the burial of yet another commander within the same disastrous year.

The past few months have certainly not been kind to him; first they were devastated by the loss of their respected doyenne, and then came the betrayal of his lifelong friend whom never returned from his Kinshasa mission.

The pale agent’s heart sank in memory of the old 007.

Tanner could still remember his first reaction when the warrant for 007’s capture was issued. He stood frozen in utter disbelief, reading the notice over and over again to make sure that he did not miss a single word. He even approached M personally after the announcement in hope of gaining some inside information towards the ridiculous accusation, only to fall into deeper despair when M told him that he was the one behind his friend’s impending arrest.

To this very day Tanner faithfully believes that there must have been some kind of mistake. He and 007 used to play golf together off-duty, he _knew_ 007.

But then again he also _knew_ 006.

Tanner clears his head of the unpleasant thought as his hurried footsteps echo in the now empty hallway. The space ahead of him contains the MI6 memorial wall; this sector of the building has always housed significantly less traffic, as it is neatly tucked away in a corner, forgotten just like the ghosts of the names carved onto the wall’s smooth surface.

A cold draft brushes lightly across the back of Tanner’s neck, raising goosebumps on the exposed strip of skin. The chilling silence around him does little to calm his rising anxiety.

Unlike the three relatively low-ceilinged pathways connected to the space, the memorial hall itself, despite being completely empty - was quite generous in height. This allows the visitors to be immediately drawn to the majestic floor-to-ceiling monument, which the excessive height of the space highlights as being one of significance.

However in a situation as such, not even a sophisticated man like Tanner can continue to appreciate the brilliant work of a world-renown architect. He makes a sharp turn upon entering the space so he could exit via a footpath perpendicular to the one he just occupied, not even sparing the marble surface a single glance.

As he rounds the corner he sees a familiar figure appearing in the closing distance.

Tanner stops dead in his tracks as if being suddenly chained to the ground by an invisible force. The errand he was running prior to the incident slips from his hands, pages from the top secret file falls into a disarrayed clutter on the floor. Except Tanner doesn't take notice, his full attention was dedicated to the man now occupying the space in front of him.

Clad in a set of navy Tom Ford mohair suit, stands the man not only wanted by MI6, but the whole British Empire behind it. Former 00 agent at the top of his class, the deadly aim Tanner was once so envious of is now pointing toward him.

Behind the bottomless black barrel of his Walther PPK handgun stood Bond.

James Bond.

 

\----------

 

Bond slowly closes in on his former colleague with a blank expression on his face. Tanner has both of his hands raised in the air as he retreats backwards against Bond’s intrusive footsteps. He soon feels a certain polished surface pressed firm against his spine.

“Tanner.” The former 00 agent greets in such a casual tone that they might as well have been brushing past each other on a fine Monday morning.

“007.” M’s chief of staff replies with the code name that is usually his first preference. Beneath his calm facade his heart is threatening to jump out of his chest.

“You shouldn't be here; re-enforcements will come any second.”

Bond seems unfazed despite the brunet’s weak protests. He stops a few meters short of Tanner, keeping a safe distance between them so the agent couldn't interfere his aim with a single leap.

“Good to see you too.”

Tanner eyes his environments attentively; backup was nowhere to be seen. Bond must have been working with somebody who impeded the security footage.

“What on earth are you doing here Bond? Are you still not satisfied by the army of men currently on the lookout for you?” The brunet claims vehemently, seemingly worried for Bond. He needs to buy some time, enough time so that Q branch could figure out they had a tampered system.

Bond crooks his head to the side which suggests that he saw straight through his former college’s over-used trick.

“Thank you for your concern, Tanner, but I don't think they would be coming any time soon.”

The brunet’s expression visibly darkens. He contemplates the situation at hand; coming to the conclusion Bond that would be able to exterminate him before his fingers even go near his gun.

“Why are you here?” Tanner asks again, however this time, all hints of concern escapes his voice.

Bond doesn't answer his question; instead he pulls out a little oval object from the pocket of his navy suit. Still keeping aim on the agent with a lone arm he dangles the round item in front of them.

Tanner widens his eyes in disbelief. 

It was a grenade.

Despite his best efforts, Tanner couldn't manage to convince himself that the puny article of explosives would do the same amount of damage equivalent to its body mass.

Doubtlessly military grade, the sleek lines of the object not only conveys its costly price, but also the absolute mayhem it will cause once its owner decides to pull out the safety pin.

“Do you know what MI6 has taught me during my time here?” Bond remarks with composure as he gestures towards the smooth surface of marble Tanner had his back flush against.

“They have taught me…that if you make a mistake, you **_correct_** it.”

Tanner could feel all capability of speech escape his stunned mind; the familiar figure of the former 007 clad in his usual work attire suddenly appears alien to him.

 _Was this really the man whom he had spent years working together with?_ Tanner couldn't be sure. _Why does this keep happening? First 006, now him._

The brunet suddenly recalls someone from years back also known as 001. He was just like the man in front of him now, accomplished in his field, so brilliant that he was once considered a living legend. He had the brightest future ahead of him, and then what happened?

He got traded for six agents due to hacking government intelligence, only to return years later to successfully assassinate the very person who granted him his success.

_When will this sick period of history stop repeating itself? Am I doomed for the same fate?_

Taking in the current state of the former 007 who used to be one of his closest friends provoked the brunet like nothing else. He wasn't going to just give in; he will protect this company until the very end just like the thousands of names behind him once did.

“What is on this wall is not a mistake, it represents all the honorable men and women who gave their lives in order to defend the very organization you are now trying to destroy.” Posture aligned by his sudden surge of insane courage, Tanner rebuts Bonds previous statement as he stretches out his arms so that his body could cover up as much of the wall as possible.

“You are nothing but a lying traitor; you will be brought to justice even if you manage to destroy this dignified monument over my dead body!” He claims blatantly ignoring the pistol aimed towards him.

Furious, Bond fires his gun so that a single bullet shatters the wall beside Tanner’s head.

A flying fragment of the marble sinks itself into the agent’s sweaty cheek, but he remains firmly in position, undeterred by the ex-007’s portent threat.

“ _For Christ’s sake Tanner move aside or I swear to god I will kill you!”_ Bond yells at the top of his lungs. _How dare he mock his service to this organization when he doesn't understand a bloody thing?_

 _“Two more minute James.”_ Out of the device implanted into his ear, Silva’s low voice reminds Bond of the tight schedule he has to work with.

“Tanner, MOVE.” Bond is now shaking from his urge to simply pull the trigger.

They knew each other from way back; Tanner’s past friendship with him is the only thing right now that’s stopping Bond from shooting him straight in the face.

Despite Bond’s very obvious threat, the brunet does not seem to budge. He stands firmly in place as if guarding a sacred artifact from the hands of thieving evil.

“ _One more minute, an army of operatives are heading your way James. Shoot the nuisance then get out.”_ Silva’s ever so calm voice is starting to sound bothered by Bond’s indecisiveness.

Bond grinds his teeth; he refuses become nothing more than a simple indented patch of stone. Decades later, when all who once knew him are no longer in existence, agent after them will absently browse pass his history in the organization like a mistake made by a careless craftsman.

He will be dammed if he lives to become nothing more than an invisible precedent of betrayal.

Bond clutches his grenade with a savage expression on his face, his features which could have once been described as benevolent are now twisted by the cold rage inside his heart.

_Why can’t he understand? Why won’t he just let me have my way?_

He is now the split image of a certain blond from Whitehall merely six months ago; he is so close, so close to accomplishing his goal that he could hear the non-existent explosion ringing in his ears.

All he has to do is pull the trigger, and the man whom he used to consider his staunchest ally in service would plummet to the ground, no longer able to further interrupt his plan.

An insignificant sacrifice considering the chaos he will cause.

His name will go down in history, maybe in a slightly different way then he would have imagined, but forever documented none-the-less.

Inside his earpiece Silva begins to count down on the seconds Bond has to spare.

_“Thirty seconds-”_

All he has to do is shoot.

_“Twenty-”_

A single casualty is nothing compared to what he will achieve.

_“Ten-”_

There is no friendship in espionage.

_“James Bond do it or get out, NOW.”_

Bond curses as memory chooses to overwhelm him with the most inappropriate timing.

They used to enjoy rounds of golf together when off-duty, they used to share drinks in a bar not far from here. Tanner even introduced him to his family once.

He trusted him.

And Bond was going to betray that trust?

He hears footsteps in the distance; backup was five, maybe eight seconds at most away from here.

Bond didn't need to be told twice; he drops the grenade with the safety pin still attached, and then makes an expeditious run for it.

Behind him Tanner immediately draws out his gun to tail Bond in an accelerating chase.

The lack of explosion informed Silva of Bond’s final decision. Q, who has been silent until now lets out a shaky length of breath he didn't know he was holding.

“ _Now that it’s done, let’s get you out of there._ ” The young quartermaster pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he mumbles to himself in lingering fear of what could have happened.

Somewhere in his blacked out SUV Silva shakes his head. Did he truly expect Bond to do it? At some point he did, but then again if the ex-007 really did manage to blow up his former headquarters, then he wouldn’t still be the stubborn agent the blond was so intrigued with.

 _“Boy, you are now our eyes and ears, judging from previous observations I believe you are fit for the job. I’m going in to assist James.”_ Silva claims while he exits the SUV to land onto the streets of pedestrian London, posture casual as he swiftly advances towards his destination.

 _“Excellent, because I am in fact not very accustomed to field work.”_ Inside the walls of his antique home, supposedly depressed part-time author Q receives the signal from Silva’s earpiece.

 _“Aha! I see you.”_ He claims as he tracks the signal while monitoring Bond’s process.  _“Bond, put your back into it. As soon as you exit from the stairwell you should see a windowed room on your right.”_

Bond barely manages to lock the door of the room filled with office cubicles, temporarily denying the other agents access as he eyes the window warily.

“Don’t tell me-”

_“Jump, you should land on top of a nearby building.”_

_Should_ , Bond sarcastically remarks to himself. With the lack of a better option he fires his gun to shatter the glass, and then takes a few steps back to gather momentum before he sprints and leaps.

Just as he lands safely on the ledge of a lower roof the door behind him bursts open. Tanner doesn’t even hesitate as he follows Bond’s path to continue chasing the ex-007. Five more agents jump while the rest of the squad leans around the dividing gap, unconfident that they could make the leap as heavy equipment weighs them down.

 _“There is a beige apartment building not far ahead. Enter from the roof exit then descend to ground level. Once you are at the front entrance you will see Mr. Silva’s men waiting in an ambulance vehicle.”_ Q types furiously on his keyboard as he monitors the henchmen’s progress.

_“Mr. Silva took an slightly unusual approach but he is not far away, he is already inside on the third floor going up- Hey what are you doing?! You are trespassing on private property!”_

“Q?” Bond questions as he kicks open a door gaining him access to the interior of the apartment.

“Is everything alright?”

 _“Help! Somebody help! ”_ On the other end the young quartermaster yells, voice rapidly lowering as if being dragged away from the receiver.

“Q! Respond!” Bond hears argument in the background; Q’s shouting is no longer audible as something crashes to the floor before the signal goes dead.

Bond swears out loud, the ex-007 waits for a brief moment but Q does not re-connect himself.

He is gone, and Tanner is possibly only seconds away.

Bond follows the man’s original instructions as he moves down the stairwell of the apartment complex. He makes a mental note to himself that if he manages to escape this with his body still intact, he would have to find another way to make sure Q was alright.

Getting down to the bottom of the flight of steps Bond attempts to exit via the egress, only to freeze into position as a bullet buries itself centimeters away from his hand on the door handle.

“Do not even think about it.” Tanner keeps a steady aim while he slowly comes to level with Bond, expression stern as he quickly calms down his rapid breathing.

“You know the drill, now _drop it_.”

In front of him in an equal state of exhaustion, Bond raised his hands up into the air as he lets his Walther PPK do a half spin on his index finger, before abandoning it to the ground.

For a moment neither man spoke as the backup operatives quickly caught up. Bond observes his surroundings: he had six men all with exceptional aims pointing their guns towards him; the door to the stairwell opens inwardly so he couldn't just launch himself out in optimism of not getting shot.

It is really going to be a miracle if he manages to escape this alive.

One of the men lowered his aim to pull out a pair of hand cuffs, he cautiously advances towards Bond. Bond is waiting until he gets close enough for Bond to confiscate his gun before using him as a shield, however Tanner stops the young agent just short of Bond’s reach.

“Your close range combat skills have always been reliable to us, 007.” Tanner states as he takes out a small bottle of anaesthesia-inducing spray, before rolling it onto the floor in front of Bond.

He gestures towards the tiny article, intentions obvious.

Bond’s heart is really beginning to sink.

He slowly retrieves the cylinder object, taking his time to examine it in the palm of his hand. Out of the corner of his eye he catches the familiar movement of a certain shade of blond.

 _About time_ , Bond smiles inwardly to himself.

Behind them Silva cautiously closes the distance between him and the operatives, footsteps silent as he carefully takes aim with a silencer attached pistol. He wastes no time in firing and manages to take out two agents with head shots.

While the attentions of others were caught by the surprise interruption, Bond uses the spray bottle to successfully subdue the young agent closest to him, taking his gun in the process before dashing out the emergency exit, the rest of the team hot on his heels.

Tanner goes down with a shot to the stomach; Silva doesn't even spare him a second glance as he steps over the brunet’s fallen body to chase after the group of men.

Bond on the other hand kicks opens the door to an apartment, just as he throws himself inside he narrowly misses half a dozen bullets which soar past his back.

He is fortunate enough to have stumbled across an unfurnished suite recently emptied for lease. The two agents following him settle themselves behind the bar counter, before proceeding to start a blind firing contest with Bond, who takes refuge behind a concrete column.

Bond manages to fatally injure one of them before Silva comes through the door, killing the last of the men with an unmistakable headshot.

Relieved, Bond admits that he is just a tad envious of the blond’s lethal aim.

“We must agree to stick to the plan next time, James.” Silva declares as he leans against the frame of the apartment entry, very glad to see Bond in one piece.

He rubs his temple briefly, sighing in exaggeration before gesturing towards the fallen agents.

“Look at the mess you’ve made.”

Bond allows a small smile to escape his lips.

“I doubt that there will be a next time.” He claims without acknowledging the blond’s accusation.

Just as he was about to make some sort of witty remark, his eyes widen in terror at the powerful sound of the blond’s head coming into contact with something unsuspected.

Silva falls to the ground with a heavy thump, behind him agent Bill Tanner carelessly discards a blood-stained fire extinguisher aside, the crimson object rings a metallic tune as it hits the floor.

Bond immediately raises his gun to point it towards the injured agent. Tanner clutches his stomach as he ignores Bond’s apparent warning for assault; instead he draws out his gun to aim at Silva.

 _“ **Him.** ”_ The brunet growls through clenched jaw.

“Out of all the criminals you could possibly conspire with, you chose **_him_**.”

“Tanner,” Bond swallows, he knows where this is going and he does not like it a single bit.

Bond was four, maybe five meters away at most from the brunet. A blind man could manage to hit him at this distance, but somehow just like before Bond couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger.

“Calm down, there is something big behind this that you don't understand-”

“ _I don't understand?!”_ The brunet interrupts Bond’s attempt to reason.

“I will tell you what _I don't understand,_ James Bond! _I don't understand_ how you could lower yourself to work with the likes of **_him_** ; _I don't understand_ how things came to be this way!”

Tanner’s emotional cries were worsening his injury; he shakes violently from a fit of coughs as he attempts to keep his composure, face pale from the loss of blood.

“Have you forgotten what he has done? To MI6! to M!”

“Calm down, Tanner! I’m sure Mallory still wants him alive! Just lower the gun and we can talk this out!” Despite concerns for his former colleague Bond remains a firm ground on the situation at hand.

The ex-007 himself is shocked at just how unpleasant the thought of Silva meeting his end occurred to him. How could he simply ignore their time together after everything they have been through?

Bond still had no idea what he was going to do with the man after this entire ordeal, maybe they would go their separate ways. However, right now, at this precise moment the thought of Silva giving up on him during the final hurdle felt unimaginable.

 _“I will not let you kill him!”_ Bond yells with determination.

Tanner eyes the ex-007 coldly; he seems undeterred from his purpose.

“Well then, I suppose this is the end, for him or for me.”

A single drop of sweat rolls down the man’s pale cheek. Bond could see the agent’s finger tighten around the trigger, gun barrel pressed firmly against a head of messy blond hair.

Bond widens his eyes; this is **_not_** going to end this way.

“Tanner… Bill Tanner you listen to me-” Bond had his pistol aimed directly at his former colleague’s grazed forehead, he attempts to close the distance between them, but is forced to stop dead in his tracks as the brunet threatens silently by jolting the loaded gun against the unconscious blond.

Tanner is literally asking him to make an impossible decision between him and Silva’s life.

“We’ve had a good run together. This does **_not_** need to end like this.” Bond can feel his knuckles turning white from the firm grip he has on his pistol, a thick stream of blood trailed down the blond’s face as a gash formed by the heavy collision beforehand remains untreated.

 “Please-” The pleading in Bond’s voice is obvious now.

“Tanner you don't understand, you don't understand what happened-”

The brunet seems unfazed by Bond’s imploring calls; Bond’s heart skips a beat as Tanner’s head lowers after making his final decision.

“Wait, I have proof! I have evidence I can show you, just give me time to-”

Bond is struck speechless as the sound of gunfire echoes through the space.

Smoke escapes the brunet’s pistol as the black metal barrel remains directed to the man on the floor. Bond could feel his strength escaping him as his former fellow operative lowers his weapon.

Bond didn't dare look down; for once he is terrified of the sight which will greet him.

Bond thought he would have been used to it by now; he was all too familiar with seeing the lifeless body of another while he lived to march on.

This is his chance, while the success of terminating one of the world’s most dangerous cyberterrorists is yet to sink in; Bond could strike. He has the potential to knock the weapon from the unsuspecting agent. To subdue or to kill, the choice would then be his.

Despite the fact that he has the opportunity to beset a potentially lethal assault, Bond finds himself no longer within the reach of logic or reason. He slowly lowers his gun, suddenly feeling weighed down by the burden of all those lives lost. Familiar faces materialize around him. They are silent, yet their resentful ashen expressions speak a thousand words. They cling to him through invisible arms, firmly bracing him in place as he confronts his merciless fate. 

The floating dust in the air begins to settle as movement in the room reduces to a complete halt. They tickle Bond’s nose, bringing water to his eyes.

Tanner limps over to the wall shakily, and then slides down the surface leaving behind a daunting smear of blood. He seems to be barely holding on to consciousness as he looks Bond in the eye.

“Well… I had to do that for her, right?” He claims weakly as blood continues to seep out from between his fingertips. “I… trusted you, 007. I _always_ have and I _always_ will.”

He coughs as his vision starts to blur.

“I have had the unfortunate luck…of witnessing so many…so many agents; bright and talented minds just like yours. To leave us, leave MI6... For whatever reason, they never last.”

Tanner gives Bond a pained little smile.

“But I trust you, you spared my life… So now… I don't suppose you can show me…your evidence?”

Bond snaps out of his episode of phantasmagoria, he looks towards Silva in disbelief. Inches away from the unharmed blond head is a bullet buried deep into the wooden floorboard.

Bond could almost collapse in relief.

“Don’t think… this is over… If you played me…I will hunt you down…!” Tanner sounds unconvincing despite his best effort to intimidate Bond.

“Okay, whatever you say friend, whatever you say.” Bond rushes over to the injured agent to roughly tend his wounds.

As he works on the damage with nimble fingers his mind is racing to come up with a suitable explanation. All the information that could effectively free him of the accusations were inside Silva’s laptop, taking in the blond’s current state Bond comes to the conclusion that he won’t be of assistance any time soon.

Bond didn’t want to leave Tanner today unless he was thoroughly convinced of their innocence, but he didn’t want Tanner to be wary of MI6 either because that would jeopardize his safety.

 _There has to be a win-win solution_ , Bond contemplates as he shifts around to examine Silva after he treats Tanner to the best of his abilities.

Just as the ex-007 does so something rock-hard inside his jacket pokes him in the guts.

If was his cell-phone.

All of a sudden enlightened, Bond turns to address the wounded agent in the most casual voice he could master:

“How many documents…did M say I took?”

Tanner is baffled by Bond’s supposedly irrelevant question; however he answers nonetheless.

“One…? Why do you ask?”

A few feet away from the very confused looking brunet, Bond smiles triumphantly to himself. He lowers his head in order to mask an unmistakable smirk inside the shadows.

_Maybe just this once, you will actually be of some use to me, **Mallory.** _


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to everybody who has taken the time to read, comment, bookmark etc etc...You guys are my inspiration. This is the longest fic I've ever written so without you guys I couldn't have done it. Special thanks again to my amazing beta frigid-princess, she is nothing shy of perfection.

After that things went much smoother.

Bond showed Tanner the file that he _actually_ took from the safekeep room and went on his way.

Tanner, as a form of apology, gave Bond the tip-off that earlier today, MI6 operatives apprehended Q as he was caught conspiring with the enemy.

He will be released from all duties until further notice, and although Tanner didn't specify, the way he put it gave Bond the impression that Q should be fine for now.

Bond spotted the ambulance vehicle exactly where Q said it was going to be. He carried the unconscious blond onboard and then relaxed against the back seat in exhaustion.

From there he witnessed several standard edition MI6 vehicles speed past them. Silva’s experienced henchman didn’t flinch as he focused on transporting his employer to safety.

Bond regards the vehicles that he used to occupy with a cold look.

From now on he is as good as dead to them.

He observes his senior in the field beside him. Bond had strapped the man’s body horizontally in place with the seatbelt, his blond head now rests on top of Bond’s thigh.

The deep gash created by the fire extinguisher seeps blood onto the golden locks surrounding it, staining it in a dark crimson color. Old blood was already beginning to turn black from the exposure to oxygen; it sticks Bond’s fingers to the messy locks, worsening the ex-007’s anxiety.

Their vehicle sways constantly from the sharp turns the henchman has been making, however no more damage is inflicted to the already suffering blond as Bond carefully holds him in position.

He applies pressure to the head wound through a thick overlay of surgical dressing. Blood quickly blots the previously untainted fabric. Bond’s hands shake a little every time he has to cover more dressing over the growing pile of soiled cotton.

Dried blood clings to his nail beds and buries itself deep into the folds of Bond’s palm, making his hands look visibly older to accompany the premature ageing of his heart.

Once they arrive at the clinic privately owned by one of Silva’s associates, nurses rush to get the blond onto a sterilized gurney. Bond pushes the wheeled stretcher with them down what seems like an endless corridor, until one of the nurses stops him from following them into the operation room.

Bond lingers irrationally in front of double doors, rapidly pacing in circles. A drop of salty liquid rolls into his eye, frantically rubbing, he suddenly realizes just how much he has been sweating.

 

 

\----------

 

 

Silva, despite Bond’s concerns, ended up in a surprisingly good condition.

He had nine stitches to close the gash on the back of his head, suffered a somewhat serious concussion, and cracked his left ulna after landing on it during his fall to the ground.

But he lives to see another day, and for that Bond silently thanked Tanner.

The brunet must have been so weak from the gun shot that he depended solely on the falling weight of the fire extinguisher, instead of swinging the blunt object down with full force.

Not that Bond is complaining, but judging from the situation at hand, perhaps Tanner could have used just a tad more force.

“Oh, James- why must every apple you touch turn so sour-” In a single bed which occupies an elegantly decorated hospital ward, a blond man complains unnecessarily to everything Bond does.

“They are all sour- just like you, by the way- and where is my coffee?”

Bond suppresses the urge to simply force the apple down the injured man’s throat. The knife which he used to previously peel a “sour” apple drips sticky liquid down his palm.

Shabbily armed with the skill of fruit peeling, Bond quickly finishes the disfigured apple (which Silva refuses to eat), before disposing the remains in a rubbish bin. He wipes his hands on a sheet of tissue paper; however the half-dried juice glues fiber to his palms instead of coming off clean.

Annoyed, Bond rises from his seat to advance towards the en-suite bathroom. Behind him Silva smiles triumphantly as he makes an extra crunchy bite to another piece of fruit.

“You know James, if I could do it myself I _would_. God knows I would do a _much_ better job.”

_That prick._

Bond rolls his eyes once he has his back turned to the man and wastes no time in washing off the clingy residue.

Ever since their narrow escape from MI6 premises Silva has been extra difficult to deal with. It is almost as if one of the nurses accidentally turned up the complaint meter inside his brain.

Forbidden from going anywhere near his technologies, the concussion left Silva with a horrible headache whenever he tried to focus on something for a long period of time.

Thoroughly beat from having to constantly endure the torturous migraine, the cunning cyber terrorist soon found himself a new source of entertainment which meant hell for Bond.

Bond supposes that he didn’t have to put up with Silva’s consistent whining.  Companionship did seem unnecessary when he could simply disappear into a forgotten crevice. His business with MI6 was done; Silva has already lost his last bargaining chip.

Though somehow, whenever he tries to leave or bring up the conversation, Bond would always be able to find some sort of excuse on Silva’s behalf.

_His state is unstable; there could be something serious if I don’t stay behind._

_Silva is unconscious; if MI6 finds him he wouldn’t have a chance._

_The man is recovering; if MI6 comes for him then he wouldn’t be able to defend himself._

And the list goes on.

Bond refuses to acknowledge the fact that his indecisiveness was due to the blond looking so frail when he first regained consciousness. Bond could still see the image whenever he is alone at night, clinging onto a bottle for dear life as he struggles to find a purpose for his continued existence.

He understands Silva to the same degree he understood himself. Bond supposes that people like them could never fully expose their inner selves to others, regardless of how hard they try.

It's an act of habit, a practiced way of speech. They are charming, yet conventional, likable, however easily forgotten nonetheless. They are expected to come along, make friends with everybody, seduce a few strangers, then go undetected.

They are the archetypal of success; yet they are characterless.

As the old saying goes, keep wearing a face long enough and it gets stuck like that. Their mask becomes their identity, their personality and their own understandings of who they are.

Bond only showed things to people that were necessary; he showed them what they wanted to see.

The only way to sneak past the subconscious barrier would be to observe them when they think no one is watching. Surprisingly, that was exactly the view Bond received when he came to checkup on Silva one sunny morning.

The blond man sat in the hospital bed with his back against the light, his brows knotted in confusion, while the normally piercing brown eyes were dull and filled with despondence. Shoulders slumped, the corners of his mouth curled downwards to form an utmost frown.

He looked exhausted and…… thoroughly disappointed.

It was obvious that he hadn’t expected the ex-007 to stay, but he straightened up instantly nonetheless. The smile he then flashed Bond was awkward, he exposed way too much of his teeth and there were no crow’s feet around his eyes.

In addition to what was previously mentioned, Bond also refuses to acknowledge the fact that he is worried. Silva never showed any signs of depression ever again after the surprise encounter, yet the way he carries himself rings an alarm inside the ex-007’s ever attentive mind.

To Bond, it’s almost as if Silva was trying to push him away, to annoy him and then make him leave out of irritation.

“No coffee, blame the nurse.” Bond replies as he makes his way back towards the blond. “And don’t give me that look- you are acting like a child.”

In front of the ex-007, a man who could have been described as anything but childish jerks his head away to silently indicate his foul mood.

Bond sighs knowingly; he walks over to the mini fridge to pour them both a glass of fruit juice.

“Do me a favor and remind me why I’m drinking fruit juice with you right now.” He states while forcing a glass into the blond man’s hand.

Silva suddenly looks a bit sheepish when Bond decides to answer his own question.

“Yes, that’s correct. Because I exchanged alcohol ban with you for your caffeine ban, something that I don't actually have to do if it wasn't to silence your constant fussing.”

The blond eventually gives in under the pressure of Bond’s merciless glare. He takes absent sips out of his glass after he got bored of blowing air bubbles into it. Over in his corner of the room, Bond studies Silva while carefully masking his intentions by pretending to read an article.

He has been in mutual alliance with Silva for some time; however it hasn't been long enough for him to forget just how slippery the blond can be.

Bond trusts his instincts; he had every reason to do so as they were often deadly accurate. Right now his instincts are telling him that this is the calm before the storm, if he was to leave now, then he would live to regret this decision for the rest of his existence.

Bond knows an individual who needs help when he sees one, and he is willing to help after everything the blond has done for him.

If only Silva would let him.

He decides that he is going to play the wait game with Silva. Both of them are masters at what they do, so it only comes down to a matter of who had the most time on their hands.

Bond had time on his hands. In fact, he could probably wait for the rest of his life.

 

 

\----------

 

 

Two month of waiting, three fiery arguments, two attempts at bring up MI6 and countless destroyed vehicles later, Silva is gone.

It occurred when Bond was least expecting it.

Their relationship was beginning to warm up again after the third argument, and to be honest, Bond had almost thought that Silva gave up on trying to get rid of him.

The blond simply vanished like a poof of smoke; gone without a trace. Bond questioned every single henchman still employed by Silva, and judging from their reactions, Bond would conclude that their boss’s mysterious disappearance puzzled them too.

None of Silva’s personal items went missing with the man himself, not even his laptop, and that disturbed Bond because Silva and his technologies were _never_ apart.

Bond paces frantically inside his room; he is starting to run out of clues.

All of Silva’s fake identities remain untouched inside his briefcase, which could be a sign that the blond didn't need to travel overseas. However everybody knew that Silva had shady connections so Bond wasn't going to rely on an assumption.

The blond has been missing for over thirty hours, if Bond doesn't get a move on soon then it would be safe to conclude that they will never meet again.

The ex-007 rubs his chin in frustration; he empties his mind of all unnecessary thoughts as he begins to focus on the sheer basic. There has to be something that he missed, perhaps it wasn't in the recent events, perhaps he had to go further back.

In a corner of Bond’s writing desk, a small porcelain figure rests silently on top. With the Union Jack draped across its back, its wrinkly bulldog figures appear frank and proud.

Further back.

Bond stares at the figure glistening in the morning light.

_He had to go further back._

\----------

 

 

Snow came early this year for Scotland.

Cold feathery flakes fell from the sky in a network of shimmering white. It covered the landscape in an ivory drape, as pure and pristine as it is blinding to the eye.

In the middle of the field, a black SUV rips through the pearl colored canvas. It leaves two dirty smears of tire marks in its wake while pumping charcoal exhaust fumes out into the open air.

Inside the vehicle Bond had the heater turned on to full blast. Burning humid air was coming from the air conditioning outlets, but no artificial heating could manage to warm up his troubled heart.

Bond had a bad feeling about this.

His inner anxiety is reflected directly through the speed at which he is going. He had his foot pressed down the acceleration paddle until it could go no further, but the road in front of him appeared endless. Grip firm on the stirring wheel, he prays to whoever is listening from above to just spare him a few more minutes.

Bond realized that he has been praying more than usual recently. _Bloody Silva._

As he rounds the corner of an ashen hill he sees the faint outlines of a familiar estate. There is fog in the air and the snow is heavy, however that did not stop Bond from sighting the red tail lights of another operating vehicle.

The door of the parked transport was left wide open, snow gathers on top of the driver’s seat and there were no footprints leading out of the car. Bond speeds straight pass the vehicle and smashes through the temporary fencing MI6 put up after the incident.

Bond has not been back here ever since the ordeal that left his childhood home going up in flames. The falling snow is so dense that it morphs into the form of an opaque screen, preventing Bond from reaching his destination within.

Bond could feel the wheels of his SUV begin to spin empty rounds without making any contact with the actual ground.

 _Now is not the time for being mired into the snow_ , Bond decides as he jumps out of his vehicle to cover the rest of the distance by foot.

As former gamekeeper of the estate, Kincade no longer had a place to stay so he retired to a small village in the outskirts of Scotland. Not another soul is present inside the barren landscape other than the one Bond is so desperately trying to find.

The blizzard wind cuts deep into his skin and Bond could hardly make out the direction he is going.

Silva was right.

They really are the last two rats.

A small, rundown church starts to come into view. Bond almost couldn't recognize it without the orange sheen of flames in the distance. The entry to the structure was left wide open, and Bond grows a bit nauseous when he has to step through the ominous threshold.

His heart only settles back into his chest after he saw the familiar figure sitting on top of a dusty stone bench. The blond man seems to have been there for a while now, a thin layer of snow covers his trench coat and there is little to no fog coming out of his nose when he breaths.

He looked like a statue, frozen and inanimate.

Bond remains glued to the frame of the entry, unable to advance further than what was necessary to close the door. The signs of life coming from the man seem so subtle and surreal.

He swallows the misery threatening to erupt from his chest, the last time he was granted with this view he struck a knife into the blond man’s back.

“I always knew that…she favored you for a reason.” Silva eventually speaks, his voice a faint whisper.

The blond had been expecting him, and Bond took that as a cue to close the distance between them.

“Well, I would argue if “favor” is the correct term to use.” He settles himself carefully on top of the stone bench Silva occupies.  A bone chilling sensation immediately creeps up his spine, Bond shivers, but Silva seems to be oblivious to the cold.

The blond man had his entire body eased into the freezing surface. In his left hand lays an object which Bond hadn’t noticed before due to the difference in perspective.

It was the item that Kincade gave him right before the attack, the black hunting knife that almost severed Silva’s spinal cord.

“Everything should have ended here… with her. It was the grand finale.” Silva stares at the knife absently, mind drifting back to the night when he had the deceased M exactly where he wanted her.

“She chose the perfect stage for it as well, such a shame.”

Bond decides that the best thing to do right now would be to listen.

“I was as shocked as you were to find myself alive. It appears that one of my hired guns survived, he carried me out of this wreck just in time for me to avoid imprisonment.” Silva, as if reminiscing something funny started chuckling.

“On top of everything else I _made sure_ to hire useless goons beforehand. Life really does **_love_** me.”

The blond continues to stare at the glistening edge of the knife; he runs his fingers over it as if he wanted to wipe away the non-existent blood.

“I _betrayed_ her. I said that I wanted to end this with her but I continued on living. I _lied_ to her James.” Bond opens his mouth to say something, but no words would come out.

What is there to say anyway? That it wasn’t his fault? Both of them knew what he did and what he wanted to achieve so who were they fooling?

“Therefore like the good little boy mummy has taught me to be I wanted to make it up to her.” Silva now had the knife firmly grasped inside his hand.

“I may no longer be of importance to her, but **_you_** were.  I knew **_you_** held a special place inside her heart so I decided that I will help you for a few years. You know, monitor your process, get you out of trouble, eliminate your enemies for you, all those sorts of things.

“But James, **_oh James_**! _You never fail to impress_. You managed to get yourself so deeply into trouble that I had to show myself to you.” Silva shakes his head vigorously to accompany the clicking noises he made with his tongue.

“That made the situation complicated of course, but everything turned out miraculously fine in the end so I’m no longer in debt. At first I had planned to disappear silently after you leave; however being the clever little rat you are I couldn’t manage to get rid of you. Therefore I have changed my mind. _James_ , you are going to do me a _favor_.”

Bond supposes that all the bad feelings he had earlier boils down to this. Silva is going to ask him something _impossible_ , he just _knew_ it. Although the ex-007 gave it his best shot, no educated guess could prepare him for what Silva decides to do next.

The blond looked him in the eye, and then hands him his hunting knife.

“You are going to do this properly this time, end this how it’s supposed to be.” Silva suddenly stands up. He grabs Bond by the arms and then pulls him into position near the door. He then moves into the exact same spot as the night when everything was ablaze in a symphony of red.

“Well what are you waiting for James? **_Do it!_** ” The look inside Silva’s eyes spoke of madness. Bond stands in bewilderment near the exit looking at Silva as if the man had gone insane.

Perhaps he was never sane to begin with.

“I’ve **_earned_** it! **_Do it!_** ”

The space they occupy grows silent for a moment save for Silva’s exasperated breathing. The glare he casts Bond threatens death should he not comply.

Bond is caught in between the most confusing and conflicting swirl of emotions.

He wanted to retaliate. That was the incentive behind what started this entire drama. But at the same time he wanted to help Silva. That was the reason why he stayed behind.

Right now he is presented with the most perfect and logical situation to accommodate both. Killing Silva would not only grant the man his own wish, but it would substantially fulfill his own desire to avenge M. So why is he hesitating?

 “ ** _Do it._** ” In the distance Silva urges again impatiently, however this time he reached into his jacket to pull out a silencer attached pistol. The gun that had eliminated so many enemies for Bond in the previous months is now used to point against him.

“ ** _DO IT. Or I will._** ”

The crisp sound of the safety being unlocked is the only indication that Bond needed. He attempts to weigh his chances but his brain is too aghast to produce anything rational.

Bond contemplates that some of the worst decisions he has made in his life all manages to link back to Silva somehow. Kidnapping the previous M, blackmailing Q into feeding him information, penetrating the safe keep room, plotting revenge against his own company, just to name a few.

Bond knows that this is wrong; the blond is requesting something that simply wasn’t for him to give.

At first he had thought that Silva deserved everything that came his way. Bond could still feel the weight of the previous M’s limp body inside his arms.

Bond respected M, she was like a mother to him. He wanted to avenge her, but could he really do that at the expense of Silva’s life?

The time that he and Silva had spent together while he was still recovering from injuries suddenly comes rushing back to him. In his decades of existence he has never felt so at ease, so **_understood_** by another that often he didn't even have to communicate his needs, Silva just gets him.

Bond has been alone for so long, **_too long_** that he clings greedily to every sliver of understanding he could get. Maybe that’s also a part of the reason why he chose to stay behind; he simply didn't want to be alone again.

As the ex-007 stares down the bottomless black barrel of the blond’s hand gun, a surge of uncontrollable fear creeps up his spine. Not fear for his own life, but fear for what he would do if he loses someone close to him, **_again._**  

In the center of the far wall, the concrete ornament’s which were used to divide the stained-glass window forms the shape of a dominating crucifix cross. 

Bond supposes that he has been letting go all his life, maybe just this once, he could learn to hold on.

“ ** _James._** ” Silva takes an intrusive step towards Bond, his aim fixed onto the ex-007’s forehead.

Bond doesn’t wait for him to come any closer. He throws the knife, but not in the direction that Silva would have had hoped. The metallic object strikes the wall and then makes a few bounces before it disappears permanently out of sight.

Silva stops just short of him, Bond does not recoil when the ice-cold gun barrel comes into contact with his heated skin. Half of him is expecting to get shot right now, the other half tells him that he has made the right decision.

“ _Why?_ ” The expression on the blond’s face is reduced down to nothing but well-suppressed sorrow. He has come so far, came so close, he thought that Bond understood him.

“ ** _Why._** ” He pleads.

 “I…Because I…” Bond could feel the strength of an invisible hand reach into his chest and crush everything inside. The words that was once so easy to say out loud now refuses to leave his mouth.

The scene in front of him reminded Bond of all the unpleasant memories, how no one was there to make things better for him when terrible mishaps came knocking at his door.

How he was orphaned at the age of eleven, only a young boy at the time when he was forced to face the death of both of his parents. How he crouched in despair, looked into Vesper’s lifeless eyes when only minutes ago she was animate and kissing his hand.

Bond understood what it was like to be cemented in the past, to be so mentally impaired that one simply loses the ability to move on. He was never particularly skilled at comforting others; therefore he decides to show his support in the only way he can.

He pulls Silva into a gentle, but firm embrace.

“Because I need you.” The words finally come.

“I need you more than she does, so stay.”

Silva doesn't acknowledge Bond’s actions; his stare is fixed to the empty space in front of him. He holds his stance for a few more heartbeats and then drops his gun. 

The blond buries his head onto Bond’s shoulder; he bites his lips, squeezes his eye shut, yet despite his best efforts Bond could still feel a patch of moisture starting to gather beside his neck.

It suddenly occurs to Bond, that maybe all Silva ever wanted was an apology.

An apology so insignificant compared to what he has endured yet no one could satisfy him.

“I’m sorry.” He states in a pathetic attempt to amend for his past actions. It is probably too little too late, but Bond feels that he had to say it.

“I’m sorry for what I’ve done, for my prejudice and my ignorance.” Bond reaches around Silva’s back until his fingers rests in between the man’s shoulder blades. He traces the scar he left there through thick layers of winter clothing.

From now on that will be the last mark anyone is going to leave on him.

 

 

\----------

 

 

When they step out of the church again the snow storm had finally stopped.

Bond leads the duo in front, while a couple of steps behind him follow Silva who has already recovered from his previous state.

The blond has not spoken a single word since Bond’s apology, and as if to make up for his embarrassing outburst, the mask he has currently in place is so immaculate that not even Bond could decipher anything from it.

 _Oh the pride._ The ex-007 thinks while rolling his eyes.

“Our destination is still hours away, so sooner or later you will have to talk to me- and oh-yeah, we are taking your ride home.” Bond states, stride speedy as usual.

“Why? I’m starting to think that you flew here.” That got a response out of the cyber terrorist. His tone is dry and uninterested but Bond can see straight through his facade.

“It’s okay to ask for help sometimes…you know?” Bond temporarily stops walking as he waits for the blond to catch up.

“Yes, that’s quite a valid point, because I can still recall your first reaction when you woke up with a new kidney.” Silva rebuts.

Bond sees a crack on the mask and he takes the chance to wear it down further. They now walk side by side, exchanging harmless insults until they catches sight of Bond’s snow-submerged SUV.

“James. Learn to drive.” Silva seems unimpressed; he circles the SUV in order to survey its condition, coming to the conclusion that he will have to get his men to excavate it in the future.

Bond draws in a sharp breath to let out a lengthy comeback, but just as he is about to do so he sees a smear of black materializing near the entrance of the church.

It’s the familiar figure of the woman whom Bond is all too used to seeing. She leans against the frame of the threshold while her other hand clutches the wound on her side. Blood stains her dress and there is black underneath her eyes. In sharp contrast with her outfit, her skin is ghastly white.

She frowns, expression stern as her eyes sweeps past Bond then ends up focusing on Silva.

Out of reflexes, Bond moves in front of Silva to shield him from her gaze.

“James?” Behind him Silva looks confusingly over to where Bond fixes his stare.

There is no one there.

“Nothing.” After a few seconds Bond eventually turns back, he is over-reacting.

“I suppose I will stay for a few minutes to see if I can gather anything useful, see you in your SUV.”

Silva looks over to the entrance of the church again; nothing pops up miraculously to answer his questions so he shrugs away the brief distraction.

“It would be wise to advice you that since I hadn’t expected to return, the keys are not exactly in my possession.” The blond gives a deep sigh which indicates that he hadn’t foreseen this turn of events.

Bond nods in understanding: “In other words you’ve lost the keys to our only transport.”

Silva gives him a dirty look: “As previously highlighted, this is rather unexpected, but I might remember where I’ve dropped them.”

The blond states while he turns to walk away, only to be stopped seconds later by Bond.

“Will you be…?” Bond’s attempt to express concern was abruptly cut off when Silva decides to shove a gloved finger in front of him.

“Uh-uh.  James, don't even start.” The blond moves his finger in the classical ‘tsk tsk’ gesture which indicates nothing but pure sass.

Bond raises an eyebrow; he fights back the urge to smile which prompts his face to twitch uncontrollably. Silva laughs as he walks off into the distance, probably to find the keys that he has carelessly discarded.  

The ex-007 figures that he should get a move on too. As he makes his way over to his vehicle an unusual question pops into his head.

Did he love the blond? No, probably not. Bond didn’t think either of them was capable of love. However he does _like_ the man, and that is about as promising as one of his relationships could get.

Maybe Silva would open up to him one day, maybe not. But his willingness to let Bond guild him away from the rundown church tells Bond that deep down, he desires to be rescued too.

As Bond clears his SUV of any useful items, he remembers the box that he had placed there before he hastily left for Scotland.

Maybe in the back of his head he knew that things were going to be settled today all along.

He takes the box with him and then looks over to the entry of the church again. The petite figure remains, her body looks so surreal that she could have been easily blown away by the wind.

Bond opens the box, inside it sits a porcelain bulldog coated with the Union-Jack.

After a long while, as if making the final decision, he drops the box into the snow.

The figure in the distance starts to blur, Bond ignores the suffocating feeling inside his chest as he watches the woman disappear until there is nothing left.

He blinks away whatever it was threatening to leave his eye socket.

James Bond is not one to dwell on the past.

In the horizon line Silva is waiting for him to go home. They are going to have a tough time clearing out all the snow from the driver’s seat, but they will eventually get it done.

From then on it’s a whole new life.


	12. Epilogue.

_-Spring, Small Island off the shores of Portugal, 2014-_

Bond leans against the balcony railing of a villa, drink in hand.

It is still ungodly early in the morning; the gentle off-shore wind tickles his face while the salty ocean aroma fills his nostrils. Seagulls shrill high above the property, constantly adjusting their wings so that they could slice through the air at a precise angle.

Taking in the magnificent beauty of the sunrise in front of him, he takes casual sips out of his glass, focus drifting off into the distance as fishing boats set sail for the day.

Inside the cream white French doors which connects the balcony to the rest of the building, a blond man talks expressively to what seems like a mobile and an earpiece all at once.

His fingers trace across a wireless keyboard so deft that they look like they are on top of all the keys at once. Contrasting sharply against the relaxed image of Bond on the balcony, he is in deep concentration, eyes only shifting away from the monitor to survey various types of equipment.

Bond continues his pointless observation on the balcony; he was never trained to be a technical operative.

Just a few days ago Silva managed to get hold of the exact whereabouts of Q, said man then immediately went on to plan his rescue. Q was far too valuable of an asset for MI6 to simply maul down like an animal, however Silva still had a tight schedule to work with before he would be transported to somewhere permanently out of their reach.

Content that he now had enough fresh air inside his system, Bond retreats back into the living space.

In the room illuminated by the occult colors of dawn, Bond quietly settles himself behind the thoroughly engaged cyber terrorist. The blond man had his entire back exposed to him; Bond is astounded by just how much trust such a simple, perhaps even careless gesture can display.

Bond allows himself to sink deep into the comfortable surface of Silva’s costly furniture. He studies the blond without any forms intention or observational goal.

For a brief moment, an unusual thought springs in his mind.

Maybe, just maybe…

He wouldn’t mind looking at the same scene in front of him for a _very_ long time to come.

 

 

\-----------

 

 

A suited figure makes his way up to the reception of the Kinshasa hotel.

The African lady behind the counter smiles professionally at him, he is just on time for the last round of check-in for the evening. Judging from the sweat on his forehead, she would have guessed that he had to rush from the airport to get here.

After arranging a room for the weary traveler, she politely inquires if she could help him with his luggage. To her surprise the man declined, he had nothing but a small briefcase with him, not fit to cover the personal needs of an individual for even a short-term business trip.

Absently brushing the thought aside, the receptionist wished him a pleasant stay before watching him disappear into the elevator. Her shift was almost over; she should be packing her belongings instead of prying on an affable customer.

However, if she had just a little more curiosity, then she would have discovered that the pale man made his way straight pass his designated floor.

After disenabling the locks to a suite he shouldn’t have access to, he stepped into the space which had a direct view over the Kinshasa harbor.

From there he went on to wrench open a plank of floorboard to reveal a flattened manila folder.

Carefully dusting off the dirt covering the paper envelope, he unconsciously swallows before gently pulling out a few pages of documents.

On the very top of the first page in bold capital text, reads the heading ‘ _Skyfall_ ’.

 

 

\------------

 

 

Miss Moneypenny, subsequent to the absence of M’s head of staff, has been taking up quite a bit of responsibilities within MI6.

She had errands to run, people to assign, and important events to jot down. With the increased workload, days suddenly seemed shorter, while nights became more restless.

Carefully concealed behind her flawless makeup is a set of purplish dark circles. Her black hair lacked its usual shine and although she tried her best to not show it, she looked tired and thoroughly worn.

Things have not been the same ever since the ex-007’s near successful attack. In fact Miss Moneypenny could probably conclude that things have been rather… _unusual_ long prior to that.

They were all small, overly subtle details which ultimately lead to the way things are now.  The way how Q used to nervously bite his fingernails when he thought no one was watching. How agent Bill Tanner (who almost never took a day off even for his wedding anniversary) decided to go on a one month leave straight out of the hospital ward.

Miss Moneypenny acknowledges the fact that there are secrets within this organization.

Secrets that she didn't need to know.

This is how she became M’s personal secretary: by following orders and respecting the fact that often enough, people have plenty of problems to deal with already without having to be troubled by her pressing curiosity.  

On top of everything, keeping up the good work without being a nosy assistant will likely earn her a promotion next year. Who was she to complain?

She rounds a corner hastily, heel clicks ringing inside the tiled hallway. She clutches a top secret document she has to deliver close to her chest and ignores the large group of armed officers escorting a prisoner.

Out of nowhere Miss Moneypenny hears the sound of a voice that she hasn't heard in weeks.

“Eve!” It desperately cries.

She snaps around, expression a mixture of shock and disbelief. Inside the clutter of security officers stands a figure clad in the jumpsuit of isolation cell.

She spares two seconds for her brain to register what’s going on before she makes a leap for it.

“Q!” She shouts whilst pushing past the group of officers dressed in navy. Before she could reach him she is stopped abruptly by a pair of vise-like hands.

“Miss, please be advised that we cannot have you conversing with the prisoner, we are following strict orders, if you wish to speak to him you will have to get documented permission.” One of the officers calmly informs her of the current situation. He seems apologetic however the grip he had on her arms were strong enough to bruise.

During normal hours out on the field Miss Moneypenny wouldn't have hesitated to drop him like a sack of flesh. However in this current situation she was too distracted by the panicking figure to even acknowledge the man holding her back.

“Eve! Help me! Don’t let them take me away!” Q is franticly kicking and punching the men bracing him to the wall. More officers rush over to hold him down, blocking Miss Moneypenny’s view of her good friend in service.

“Q!” She shouts.

“Where have you been?! What’s going on?!”  She attempts to push past the armed officer, her slim figure insignificantly small compared to his towering presence.

Q becomes silent on the other end, when the majority of the men back away to reassemble she sees the figure now limp against one of the officers.

The member of security who was holding her back remains behind to escort her in another direction, she stubbornly shakes off the urging hand to watch the group carry Q’s unconscious body away.

 _He looked so frail._ She thought to herself.

She had been too occupied with her work recently to have questioned Q’s absence. She simply assumed that he was chosen aboard another absurdly secretive nerd gathering.

Now that she thinks about it, short episodes of bad nail-biting habits aside, for the past few weeks, he looked like he had been expecting someone to jump out of the shadows and devour him.

Miss Moneypenny picks up the file she had dropped during the rampage. It is now covered in black boot prints and creased in a few corners.

She tries to dust off the dirt smears and smooth out the crease marks, however they remain firmly in place just like the questions that are now starting to surface inside her heart.

The security officer beside her places a hand on her shoulder to get her moving. She casts him a glare so cold that it made him instantly remove his hand.

She did not want to risk commotion simply because of a minor complication.

But having your friend imprisoned is _not_ a minor complication. Miss Moneypenny swiftly decides that the upcoming promotion would have to wait.

She is going to get to the bottom of this. She concludes as she takes off again, completely oblivious to the mayhem ahead.

 

 

 

_The Judas Kiss_

_-Fin-_


End file.
